


You're a work in progress

by iceyred



Category: Disney Animated Fandoms, Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceyred/pseuds/iceyred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi.” The boy, who didn’t look old enough to drive let alone hold the beer in his hand, waved. His name badge is twisted so Kocoum couldn’t see his name, but the hat was familiar. This was one of Elsa’s interns, who checked names off the guest list and handed everyone their drink ticket. “Hi,” he said again. </p><p>Kocoum and Thomas meet in Washington D.C. Kocoum just got back from Afghanistan. Thomas is still trying to wipe the mud from the trailer park off his face. They meet at a fundraiser.</p><p>Chapter 18 has been posted! Finally, at long last!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            She had the grace not to send him a Dear John letter while he was in Afghanistan. Kocoum was safely back in D.C. with all the support the Army, the Veteran’s Affairs, and his buddies could give him before Pocahontas told him she was breaking up with him. It was her right to date whomever she pleased, and he was not the kind of man to try and force a woman to date him, but still…

            Did she have to leave him for a squid? She could have at least left him for another Army guy, but nooooo. Pocahontas decided she wanted a Navy boy. A blond, blue-eyed dingbat who probably spent his entire deployment on ship, far away from the shooting and the bombs. Kocoum did not pretend to like John Smith.

            Pocahontas’ dad did not pretend to like the squid either. John Smith is too clever, too talkative, too ready to move in with Powhatan’s daughter without marrying her. The head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs grumbled about the breakup, then offered Kocoum a job. Where better for a Captain in the United States Army looking for a change to go than the federal government?

            The B.I.A. was just like the rest of the government: bureaucratic, resistant to change, and refreshingly air conditioned. Kocoum spent half of his first week soaking in the luxury of opening his mouth and not breathing in sand. He heard music from Tiger Lily’s ipod down the hall, not gunfire. There were real toilets, not latrines filled to the brim with waste. The war hadn’t reached the B.I.A. There was peace. Blissfully dull peace.

            There was also Nakoma. They went to college together. She and Pocahontas have been friends for more than two decades. She still had a crush on Kocoum and he knew it. He respected her, thought she was more intelligent than she gave herself credit for (anybody who got a scholarship to William and Mary had to have brains), and said yes when she got up the nerve to ask him out on a date.

            The movie was lame. The sex was slightly better. Afraid of being lonely they repeated this cycle a few times. It was a stillborn romance and it faded into a comfortable friendship. She called him whenever she needed a ride to the airport. He called her when the nightmares got too much and he needed to hear a human voice.

            “I want to invite you out. Elsa’s throwing a fundraiser for her non-profit.” Elsa was the Executive Director a non-profit that supported homeless LGBT youth. Kocoum met her a few times and considered her the most depressed person he had ever met. If he was the type who gave hugs, he would give her a big one.

            “So invite me.”

            “John and Pocahontas will be there.”

            He inhaled. Then exhaled. Counted to ten. Lather, rinse, repeat because he can feel his blood turning to lava: hot and ready to burst out of his skin.

            He was twenty-six years old. He had four years of military experience. A potential career with the federal government. He was an adult. He could handle seeing an ex-girlfriend with her stupid squid.

            “He’s not a squid anymore,” Nakoma said. “He got out of the Navy and started his own adventure company.”

            “Adventure company?”

            “He takes people camping, rock climbing, kayaking. That sort of thing. I think he’s trying to get a contract to teach survival skills to the Special Forces.”

            Kocoum snorted. “He’s still a squid.”

            The fundraiser was in a hotel conference room that Elsa almost certainly paid too much for, and it had food, raffles, a projector screen showing the smiling faces of the kids her non-profit has helped as well as some stomach-churning facts and statistics, junk to bid on (Kocoum wouldn’t give fifty cents for a dance lesson from Esmeralda, but there was a painting of glowing lanterns by one of Elsa’s clients and he bids twenty-five dollars for that), interns, would-be politicians, and a big jar for everyone to drop fat checks into (Again, twenty-five dollars. Civil servants don’t get paid squat). Everything he hated and loved about Washington D.C. was in that room.

            “You look ready to attack someone.” Nakoma handed him a ticket.

            “Nah. Need full battle rattle and a hundred and five degrees in the shade before I can work up the energy to go crazy on someone.” He was kidding. Mostly. “What’s this?”

            “Drink ticket. Get yourself a drink. Relax. Talk to people.” She followed his eyes to where Pocahontas and John were talking to Ariel and Eric. “Other people. Mulan!”

            Mulan, her hair short enough that it wouldn’t touch the collar of her uniform and Shang, wearing a pin with the symbol for bisexual pride on his chest, both smiled. “Look who decided to come out of his cave. Kocoum, how’s it going?” Shang shook his hand. Getting out of the Army was good for him. He smiled more out of uniform, unlike Mulan who always looked like she was in uniform even when she wore civvies.

            “It’s going. You?”

            Shang’s gym was doing a great business. Ferdinand had a new job with Booz Allen Hamilton. Phoebus and Esmeralda were engaged. Aurora and Phillip were having a baby. Belle and Adam were engaged. Eric just got promoted and Ariel found a new job working for Elsa’s non-profit. Kocoum was lost in a sea of people whose lives were going right. There were too many faces, too many voices, too many smiles.

            Desperate for air he took his third beer and looked for a place to catch his breath. The conference room connected to a balcony. Hercules and Meg blushed and smirked when he walked in on them making out, but left soon. There was a giant balcony with nobody on it but Kocoum.

            Peace. Calm. He sipped the beer (he was downing them too fast and had seen too many people come home and drink to forget almost getting blown up every day to go down the path to alcoholism. He had too much self-control for that) and took a few moments to remind himself that everything was fine. He was fine. Totally fine. Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten. Repeat.

            The door opened. The din of the crown and someone spilled out onto the balcony, interrupting Kocoum’s meditation. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise. Unfortunately, the person was still there.

            “Hello,” Kocoum said, in a way that meant _Please leave me alone._

            “Hi.” The boy, who didn’t look old enough to drive let alone hold the beer in his hand, waved. His name badge is twisted so Kocoum couldn’t see his name, but the hat was familiar. This was one of Elsa’s interns, who checked names off the guest list and handed everyone their drink ticket. “Hi,” he said again.

            “Nice to meet you,” Kocoum said. _Now go away._

            “It’s loud in there. It is so, sooooooo loud. And she’s there and y’know, it’s not fair. It’s sooo.” He swayed a little and a few drops of beer hit the concrete. “Not fair. But what’m I gonna do? Wreck a healthy, functioning relationship because I’ve got a crush on a straight guy?”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Nor did he care. This child was dangerously close to the balcony railing and it wouldn’t take much for him to go over the edge. Kocoum had no intention of watching yet another baby-faced teenager die in front of him. He took a few steps, close enough to grab the kid, but not so close to smell beer breath.

            “I mean, that would be a shitty thing to do, right? Right? I can’t do it. Even if I really, really want to.”

            “How many have you had?”

            The redhead rocked the beer bottle. It was half empty. “Second. Second bottle of beer on the wall. But I mean, her hair. Have you seen her hair? It’s like a curtain of gorgeous. And her boobs. Not, not that I like boobs. Boobs are…more for other guys. But those are impressive boobs. And she’s nice. Not fake-nice, but nice-nice. I can understand why he likes her. And her hair clogs the drain in the bathtub.” He swayed suddenly, and Kocoum steadied him while wishing the balcony rail was just a couple of feet taller. Or that there was no balcony, but a concrete wall separating them from a six story free fall.

            “I think you should stop drinking.” He plucked the bottle from the redhead and rolled it into the corner. It left a trail of beer behind it.

            “Hey!” The kid smacked his arm and pouted. “I’m in the throes of unrequi…unreq…one-sided love here. I can drink if I want.”

            “Ah, teenage melodrama. Just what I didn’t need.”

            “It’s not melodrama. It’s one-sided love. If I told John I loved him then it would be melodrama. But it’s not melodrama.”

            “Pretty sure this counts as melodrama.” Kocoum thought for a second. “Did you say John?” There were hundreds of Johns in D.C. Thousands probably. It couldn’t be…

            “John Smith. Tall, blond, blue-eyed, hot as the smoldering pits of hell, and straight as a fucking arrow.”

            “Of course,” Kocoum deadpanned. “Of course you’re talking about John Smith.”

            The door opened again and another intern popped out. Merida’s nametag was on straight, her smile was wide, and man, did that girl have a head of hair. There were redheads and then there were _redheads_. That hair almost had a life of its own. Between her, the drunk, and Ariel, Kocoum figured Elsa had a fetish.

            “There you are.” She grabbed the drunk’s arm and pulled him away from the balcony railing. That was a brave thing to do given that he looked ready to throw up. “Bothering the donors again?”

            “He saved me from drowning,” the boy said, looking at Kocoum.

            “There’s no water here, hon. Just beer.” She was grinning like she had three too many herself.

            “Not him. John. I fell in the fountain at the memorial and he fished me out.” You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a memorial with a fountain in D.C.

            “Of course he did.” John Smith: Pocahontas’ boyfriend, owner of his own company, and savior of alcoholic LGBT teenagers. He probably cured cancer in his spare time.

            “He totally did.” The boy went to the corner of the balcony where he almost fell over trying to pick up the now empty beer bottle. The girl laughed.

            “Uh-huh. C’mon. Ms. Elsa wants us to look sad and puppy-eyed so people donate more.” Stumbling, the boy let himself be pulled back into the room. He waved good-bye to Kocoum as he went.

            Kocoum didn’t wave back. He finished his beer, much, much too quickly, and returned to the fundraiser. Inside, the lights were too bright, the music was too loud, and there were too many voices. The whole room was like a firecracker: hot and noisy and ready to burst into flames. In the center of the swirling pit of heat and racket John and Pocahontas were locking lips in the most revolting public display of affection he had seen since coming back to the states.

            Maybe it was the left-over irritation from his conversation with the intern. Maybe the alcohol, or the noise, or the heat, or his stupid tie, or the nightmares he had every night, maybe it was seeing the two of them together, or maybe he just got sick of having his failures rubbed in his face. Whatever it was, it made something inside Kocoum snap.

            Before he realized the battle-cry came from his throat he was on top of John and they were crashing into the table with the appetizers. They were roughly equal in height and weight, but Kocoum had the advantage of rage. When Pocahontas screamed for him to stop and pulled his hand away from John’s throat, he threw her to the ground. The fact that he was hurting the woman he once loved was irrelevant; the only thing that mattered was causing John Smith pain.

            Suddenly, he felt that pain himself. It raced through his head and down the back of his neck, then back up again. It was blinding and he hit the ground. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Pocahontas leaning so close to him he thought he could kiss her.

            The lights were still too bright and there was still too much noise when he woke up. A woman was nearby. She was blurry, but it was a blue blurry and he remembered Pocahontas was wearing her mother’s turquoise necklace. He blinked, groaned, and willed his eyesight to sharpen.

            Nope. Not Pocahontas. It was the girl from the balcony. Merida.

            “You okay there, Mr. Screaming-In-Rage?”

            “Where am I?” He could feel cloth underneath his back. Someone’s coat. He had a monster headache. A button dug into his shoulder. Someone nearby was yelling.

            “You could have killed him!”

            “He was trying to kill John!” The voice sounded like the person it belonged to was trying not to throw up.

            “Still at the hotel,” the girl said with fake cheerfulness. “Thomas beamed you over the head with a bottle of beer.”

            Shang’s voice carried from outside the conference room. “GLASS IS NOT SOFT!”

            “I ruined the fundraiser.” There was a broken table decorated with equally broken cake, shrimp cocktail sauce, and raw vegetables. The bidding table was gone, and the conference room was empty. Kocoum could practically hear his mother’s voice in his head, scolding him for behaving so atrociously.

            “Nah.” She had a faint Boston accent that he only then realized. “People were so freaked out they dropped a bunch of benjamins in the donation jar and peaced out. We made out like bandits. Given that we can now afford to furnish the office, Ms. Elsa’s gonna invite you back next year. Besides,” she lightly punched his arm. “We’re gay or at least non-heteronormative.” She clearly relished saying that word. “Sooner or later we fall in love with someone who can’t love us back. Unrequited love is something we get.”

            “That excuses nothing.” Kocoum spent the last four years of his life in perfect control of his emotions. Whether or not anybody ‘got’ why he lashed out doesn’t make the fact that he lost his mind any better. He lifted his head and, wincing and groaning all the way, sat up.

            “Whoa, whoa. You don’t have to get up, Dude. Head injuries don’t heal that quickly and we’re not kicking out a…” she stopped and looked almost as ashamed as he felt.

            “A what?”

            “It’s just…Nakoma told us you just got back from Afghanistan. We kinda…figured. It’s not like you’re the only guy suffering from PTSD.” That last part was definitely an attempt to make him feel better. It didn’t work. In fact, it just made him feel worse; not only did he behave horribly, but the better part of his social circle thought he had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

            He was saved from having to respond when the door opened and Pocahontas entered. She was a vision in a cream colored dress that made the beautiful copper of her skin glow. The bold turquoise necklace settled on her chest, drawing attention to her exquisite neck and eyes. And that hair. It gleamed as she walked and fell over her bare shoulder when she knelt beside him.

            “I’m sorry. If I had known you were there we wouldn’t have…”

            “You don’t need to hide your relationship. You have every right to kiss your boyfriend in public.” Getting up made him wince, but at least this time he held back a groan. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. Please pass my apologies on to John. Elsa.” He turned to the pale blond who was hanging back with Nakoma, Shang, Mulan, and the drunk teenager from earlier in the evening. “I’m so sorry. I truly never meant for this to happen. I’ve ruined your fundraiser and that’s inexcusable.”

            “It’s not the end of the wor…”

            “Shang, I have no right to ask you this, but can you please help me get home?” Wounded pride at having to ask for help was something he could live with if the alternative was passing out on the subway.

            “I got you.” The uniform might be hung up in a closet somewhere, but Shang would never, ever leave another soldier to fend for himself.

            The car ride was silent and Kocoum spent the rest of the weekend recovering and avoiding all human interaction. All texts were responded to with short, clipped replies that assured the sender that he was very sorry to have ruined their evening, he was fine, and please pass his apologies on to John, Elsa or Pocahontas. Around three in the afternoon on Sunday, it occurred to him that wallowing in humiliation and self-pity was not the best way to recover

            Around four in the afternoon he got a text from an unknown number. It was an apology for smashing a beer bottle over his head. Kocoum stared at it for a few moments before tapping the trashcan icon on his phone.

            Monday came, because despite his strict control over himself, he couldn’t control time. It was a mostly quiet day. Tiger Lily played her music too loudly until he glared at her, then she quickly turned it down. Kenai pestered him about the upcoming Wilderness Expansion and Conservation Act and would there be a focus group about it? Nakoma gave him space and only reassured him that he didn’t need to hide and that Pocahontas and John understood when it was close to five o’ clock and he could escape to the gym.

            Coursing River Gym was how Shang spent his time now that he was out of the Army and his wife spent her days at the Pentagon. A number of trainers helped the body building muscle heads stay in shape, and their fees paid the rent and allowed Shang to offer low cost training to folks who wanted to beef up before shipping off to Basic Training Camp. Kocoum had asked about the gym’s name once, when they were in Afghanistan, and gotten a mumbled answer about manliness and raging fires. He always meant to ask again under sober conditions.

            Not now though. Now it was time to clear his head with the clang of metal, drip of sweat and burn in his muscles. Five reps, then ten. Biceps. Triceps. Fifteen reps. Shoulder muscles. Feel a cramp, pause and massage it out. Drink water. More reps. Focus on the burn. It’s a good, good feeling. It told him he was in control and strong. He liked being in control, and if he was strong then he could protect those who needed protecting.

            Five reps, then ten. Biceps. Triceps. Fifteen reps. Shoulder muscles. Lather, rinse, repeat. He didn’t miss the Army so much as he missed the order and routine it brought to his life. Maybe if that order hadn’t gone missing then the fundraiser mess wouldn’t have happened.

            That thought urged him to the gym every day for the rest of the week.

            By Friday he was a sore, sweaty mess. After one. more. rep. he let the weights clang down and fell back against the seat cushion, appreciating the ache and staring at the ceiling tiles.

            And a face. One that looked vaguely familiar, with blue eyes, golden hair, and a body that would one day rule the WWE.

            “Hi!” the blond said, waiting until Kocoum sat up before offering a hand.

            “Hi?”

            “Hercules. Um, so, I have a cousin. She works for a non-profit. Ever heard of Let It Go Half-Way House?”

            Kocoum rubbed his eyes. The name sounded familiar. Hercules was the guy who always wiped down the equipment after he used it, and smiled at everyone. Six months they exchanged greetings and their favorite workout music. They waved at social functions and pretended not to see each other the rest of the time. “Yes. I was at their fundraiser last weekend.” The _you were there too_ was unspoken.

            “Great. So Ariel, that’s my cousin, has a co-worker. Who needs to see you because you won a bid on something. But she seemed kinda…scared? Like she thought you would hurt him. You’re not going to hurt him are you? I promised I wouldn’t let you hurt him.”

            “What?”

            Hercules stepped back and revealed the redheaded boy with the hat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I have to apologize.”   
>  Kocoum stopped, turned around, and that eyebrow was arched so high it looked ready to fly off his face. “Apologize?”  
>  “Yeah, there’s a reason I tried to stalk you on the internet.” This apology was the crappiest apology in world history. 
> 
> Thomas tries to apologize for beaming Kocoum over the head with a beer bottle. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

            It took Thomas a week to find Kocoum. A week of scouring Facebook and checking each one of Pocahontas’ one thousand five hundred and twelve friends to see if he was one of them. A week of trying to steal her phone to see if Kocoum was listed in her contacts (he was, but he never responded to Thomas’ text so maybe he didn’t get it. Or maybe he had a new number. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk to the idiot who cracked a beer bottle over his head at a fundraiser. Sending a second text would have looked desperate and pathetic, but maybe Kocoum meant to respond and then forgot?).

            “Did you try LinkedIn?” Merida asked. She was being unusually helpful; probably because she felt bad for him. Guilt and pity were great motivators. “He looked like a LinkedIn guy. He was wearing a blazer.”

            “LinkedIn lets you see who looked at your profile.” Nobody wants to be known as a stalker.

            “Right, right. And anonymous stalking requires anonymity.”

            Ariel, who was their new co-worker and the only person who hadn’t torn Thomas’ head off for drinking on the job and knocking someone over the head with a beer bottle, asked if he had tried Myspace.

            He stared at her. She had ten years on him, maybe this was an twenty-something thing. “What’s Myspace?”

            She stared back. “Seriously?”

            “It sounds like a computer virus.”

            It wasn’t a computer virus, but it wasn’t helpful either. Kocoum was the only person in the Western Hemisphere who was not on social media.

            With his Google-fu defeated, Thomas turned to the one person he really didn’t want to ask: Pocahontas.

            “No.”

            “Please?”

            “No.”

            “Please?” He gave her puppy-eyes.

            She death-glared him. “If you think I’m going to call my ex so my idiot roommate can apologize for knocking him out during a fight that _you had no business getting involved in_ , you’re crazy. Stay away from him.”

            “But…”

            “Drop it.” John looked up from his video game for the first time in the conversation. “Seriously, kid, drop it.” It wasn’t so much the words, but the tone that made him sound like Thomas’ dad. Which was just a world of no. Crushes aren’t supposed to sound (or act) like parents.

            In the end it was Elsa who provided the answer to the ‘Where’s Kocoum?’ question. The winning bid on Rapunzel’s painting was twenty-five dollars and the name on the sheet was Kocoum’s. Beside the name was a government e-mail. A few messages later and she knew where he would be on Friday after work. She also needed someone who could drop the painting off.

            That someone would not be Thomas.

            “No.”

            “Please?”

            “No.”

            “Please?” He tried the puppy-eyes again.

            “Thomas, we’re lucky he didn’t sue. You’re lucky he didn’t sue. I’m not letting you chase down a man you could have seriously injured just so you can make yourself feel better.”

            “Ok, technically we could sue him. He started the fight and…” he trailed off. Her death-glare was better than Pocahontas’. They should get together and trade tips on how to make him feel about five years old.

            “Forget it. I’m already taking a risk letting anyone from this office go near him. I’m not sending the person most likely to get beat up on this errand.” The death-glare multiplied by a thousand. “I’m serious. Don’t go near him.”

            Again, it wasn’t the words, but the tone. Bosses shouldn’t sound like parents either.

            Even Merida, who was usually down for whatever rule-breaking, law-breaking, and social construct-breaking anybody could think of, wasn’t on his side. She tugged her hair and bit her lip and said, “I dunno. What if he tries to beat you up?”

            Thomas shrugged. “You can’t say I don’t deserve it.”

            “Debatable. He jumped your crush. There’s enough blame to go around here. You know he’s at Shang’s gym right?”

            Shang. The last time Thomas saw Shang the other man was really loud and really angry, which people tended to be after your hit their friends with beer bottles.

            “Fuck.”

            “Hang on. ARIEL,” Merida yelled, her voice carrying through their tiny office and thank God Elsa was out at a stakeholder meeting. “You have a cousin who works out at Shang’s place, right?”

            Hercules was the nicest person ever. He was all smiles, sunshine, and a great pair of pecs. He even asked Kocoum not to kill Thomas. It was a nice gesture, but the constant talk of lawsuits, revenge, blame, and the likelihood of getting beaten up was getting troubling. It was a fight. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

            Lie. If it wasn’t such a big deal then he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble just to apologize.

            “Hi.” Wow, was that his voice? Talk about squeaky.

            Hercules looked at Kocoum. “Seriously, you’re not going to beat him up are you?”

            Kocoum shook his head. “Scout’s honor.”

            “In that case, I’ll be in the weight room. Holler if you need me.” Hercules smiled and left them alone.

            Silence. Awkward silence. The fear wasn’t of getting beaten up, it was that his apology might be rejected.

            “You were a Boy Scout?” he blurted out.

            “Eagle Scout,” Kocoum said after a moment’s hesitation.

            That made sense; Kocoum looked like the kind of guy who used to be a Scout. Tall and competent.

            “Why exactly are you here?”

            “Oh.” Thomas fumbled through his backpack and withdrew a small oil painting in a cheap, but sturdy frame. “You won the bid for this.”

            “Ah.” Kocoum took it and his hands were shaking slightly, like someone who had too much caffeine. “I paid her through Paypal.”

            “You use Paypal.”

            Kocoum nodded without looking up from the painting.

            “’Cause you don’t use Facebook, LinkedIn, or Instagram.”

            Kocoum did look up at that. “Were you stalking me?”

            “No!” Beat. “I tried, but you’re not on social media.”

            “Did you try Myspace?”

            “That still sounds like a computer virus,” Thomas muttered. “Yeah, my co-worker suggested it. Couldn’t find you.”

            Kocoum tucked the painting under his arm and headed for the changing room. “Your co-worker helped you stalk me. My compliments to Elsa for her hiring practices.”

            Oh God, he was leaving and he was mad. Thomas ran after him, desperate to at least try to be a decent human being. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I have to apologize.”

            Kocoum stopped, turned around, and that eyebrow was arched so high it looked ready to fly off his face. “Apologize?”

            “Yeah, there’s a reason I tried to stalk you on the internet.” This apology was the crappiest apology in world history. Thomas took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I hit you with an empty beer bottle. I didn’t realize it would hurt you that badly.”

            “You honestly didn’t realize it would knock me out? You could have given me brain damage!”

            “Yeah, there was a lot of yelling and I didn’t have time to think about all the stuff that could happen if I hit you. I only thought that I needed to hit you, or…” He shrugged. Apologizing didn’t mean explaining the why behind the action.

            “Or I’d hurt the man you love.”

            To say the gym was silent would be a lie. There was a clanking of metal on metal, bubbling from the water fountain, and the grunts and groans of several men pushing their muscles to the point of sweat and strain. Thomas didn’t hear any of that. He just heard those seven words on repeat in his head, like a damaged dvd that kept skipping in the machine.

            Kocoum had one hand on the door before Thomas managed to find his tongue. “How…how did you know that?”

            “You told me.”

            “What?”

            Eye roll. “On the balcony. You had two bottles of beer and were slurring your words.” There was way too much judgment in those words. “Look, its fine. I’m not going to tell him, or anyone else. I don’t hate you, and I’m not going to hit you so stop looking like you expect me to start throwing my fists.”

            “I don’t expect you to hit me.” Somewhere, Baby Jesus was crying over that lie.

            “Uh-huh.”

            “I don’t. I was going to ask you out for ice cream.”

            More staring. “Ice cream?” Kocoum made it sound like he was speaking another language. He didn’t seem offended, which was a good sign. Just perplexed, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle when the pieces were face down. “I haven’t had ice cream since before Afghanistan.”

            That was new. Thomas hadn’t heard anything about Kocoum being in Afghanistan. “Well, lemme buy you an ice cream.” When Kocoum didn’t say anything he added, “Please?” with a side order of puppy-eyes. They had to work on somebody.

            They worked on Kocoum.

            Ten minutes later they were both seated on the National Mall near the cherry blossom trees, which were not blooming at the moment. Thomas had a cone of mint chocolate ice cream that he attacked like he was starving, and Kocoum had a cup of chunky chocolate that he didn’t eat at all.

            “It’s gonna melt if you don’t eat it.” D.C. in mid-September was hot enough to melt pavement, let alone frozen deliciousness.

            “I’m still not used to normal,” Kocoum said quietly. “In Afghanistan there were a lot of MREs. Not a lot of chunky chocolate.” He dipped the little white plastic spoon into the cup and took a bite. The look on his face was pure bliss.

            Thomas smiled.

            Since Kocoum seemed to think he’d said too much about Afghanistan they talked a lot about school. Virginia’s collection of universities spanned the spectrums of difficulty and friendliness.

            “So William and Mary is hard and filled with jerks,” Thomas said. “Why didn’t you just transfer?”

            “I had a ROTC scholarship. A lack of debt is worth some needlessly difficult class work and a few jerks.”

            “ROTC?”

            “Reserve Officers’ Training Corps.” Kocoum’s eyes narrowed, which had the effect of making him look dangerous. “How do you live with Captain John Smith and not know military acronyms? This state wouldn’t survive without the military.”

            “He’s from Hampton Roads, and I’m from Woodstock. They’re a little different.” John’s accent was Military-Industrial Complex. Thomas sounded like he was about to sign up to march with Robert E. Lee. Virginia was a culturally diverse state. “There’s no fort, or base, or really much of anything in Woodstock.”

            “Huh.” Kocoum took another bite of his ice cream. “So how does someone get from Woodstock, Virginia to D.C.?”

            “George Mason University.” If it wasn’t for the scholarship that was the only reason he could afford college at all, he’d be gone. There were too many kids from the North in that school, and too many people who thought that having parents who can’t talk about their careers made them special, and too many people period.

            “Ah. What are you studying?”

            “Accounting. Or.” Thomas swallowed another bite of ice cream. “I want to major in Accounting. Right now I’m plodding through electives. None of which have any relation to what I want to do with my life.”

            Kocoum almost almost almost looked like he was smiling. “I literally had to take basket weaving.”

            “Seriously?”

            “It was my first semester. Freshman have last pick when it comes to electives and I forgot until the day before the cut-off date. The only thing class with open spots was Basket Weaving 101.”

            Thomas laughed. “That’s horrible.”

            “There were a lot of physics majors in that class. I think they needed a break.”

            “Probably. I feel lucky now because I don’t think GMU offers basket weaving.”

            “You should feel lucky.” Yeah, Kocoum was definitely smiling. It looked good on him. “What are you taking?”

            “Creative writing, American History, Statistics, Public Speaking, and Geology. Except for Statistics, I can skip half the classes and still get a B.”

            Kocoum nodded slowly. Then he held out a paper napkin. “You’ve got ice cream on your nose.”

            “Thanks.” God, was there anything more childish than having ice cream on your nose?

            “You’re welcome. Get straight A’s and I’ll take you out for dinner.”

The sun was just setting when Thomas got back to the apartment. He leaned against the door trying to hear if anything was going on inside on the couch. John sorta sucked about putting socks on the door.

            No squeaky springs.  

Voices. Normal talking voices, not ‘Oh God, right there!’ voices. Thomas decided to risk it and walked in.

They were on the couch, but they were clothed. A sigh of relief seemed appropriate. “Oh, thank God. I thought you guys were getting it on again.”

“Um.” John looked like he just swallowed drain cleaner.

“It’s kind of messed up how many times I’ve walked in on you guys having sex.”

“Thomas.” Pocahontas gritted her teeth. “Shut. Up.”

“I will if you promise to quit giving him blow jobs on the couch.”

Somebody coughed and the sound made his blood freeze. Turning around Thomas saw a man sitting at their kitchen table. The skin tone, hair, eyes, and look of ‘you are such an idiot’ all gave the impression that he was related to Pocahontas. He was an adult; not a nineteen year old or a twenty-something with too many responsibilities, but an actual grown-up.

“This is my dad. Dad, this is Thomas. Our roommate.”

“Hi.” Thomas swallowed. “Apartment-mate, actually. I don’t-don’t share a room with them. They…um…um…I actually haven’t walked in on her giving him a blow job.”

Pocahontas groaned, John made that noise people make when they’re laughing to hide their pain, and her dad said: “I’m glad to hear that,” in a tone icy enough to make Elsa proud.

Time to run. “It was great to meet you. I’m gonna go find a rock to crawl under.” Before anyone could say anything else he ran for his room, flopped down on the inflatable mattress, and wished he could stay there forever.

Two hours later he ventured outside. John was nowhere in sight, but Pocahontas was on the couch, hunched over her laptop. Curled up in her lap was her cat Meeko. Meeko was kind of a dick and he looked more like a raccoon than a cat, but Pocahontas loved him. She adjusted her glasses when she saw Thomas, probably so she could properly glare at him.

“Hi.” He waved.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Ouch. Thomas laughed nervously even though nothing was funny about this evening. “Yeah, um, sorry about earlier. I didn’t know your dad was here. I wouldn’t have gone off like that if I knew he was right behind me.” Because nobody, even if she was dating the most perfect man in the world, deserved to have their sex life mentioned in front of their parents.

“Does it really bother you that we have sex on the couch?”

“Only when you forget to put a sock on the doorknob.” If he didn’t walk in on them he could live in blissful ignorance. What Thomas didn’t witness, he could pretend didn’t happen.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that we get…excited, and it’s hard to remember. I told John we had to get better about that.”

“Thanks.” That was a nice thing of her to do. Which was the problem with Pocahontas; she was a genuinely nice person. She forgave easily, had cool hobbies, volunteered, was a functioning member of society, and was an all-around decent person. If he didn’t have a crush on her boyfriend, and if she didn’t know about his crush, they might have been friendly, if not actual friends.

“Welcome.” She turned back to her laptop. “So, anything interesting happen today?”

“I think I got asked out on a date.” The one person who might clarify if Kocoum was bisexual or not was the one person he couldn’t ask.

“You think?”

“It wasn’t really clear. It’s conditional.”

She didn’t pry. “Word to the wise?”

“I’m listening.”

“That sounds like something Kocoum would do. ‘Do X,Y and Z and I’ll take you out to dinner next Friday.’ I don’t think he realized how condescending that was.” Her voices took on a bitter flavor and her hand gripped the fabric of the couch a little too hard. “Anyway, you deserve to be with someone who wants to be with you. Not someone who wants to be with you only if you do what they want.”

A hot guy (and there was no denying that Kocoum was hot) asked him out and someone was telling him not to go. This had to be karma for all the lies he told today.

When he didn’t say anything Pocahontas shrugged. “Just a suggestion. You’re an adult. You can do whatever you want.”

Oh, _that_ was helpful. After mumbling good night, he retreated back to his lair and texted a response to Kocoum.

_Yes._

 

           

           

           

           

 


	3. Chapter 3

            Three days into the week and dozens of thrice-damned Requests for Propoals that articulated, in explicitly boring detail, how to share fishing rights between Alaskan native tribes, commercial fishermen, and subsistence fishers later, and Kocoum headed for the gym. Work-outs made sense and were blissfully straight forward. The need to make his muscles scream for relief was gone, but pushing the body cleared the mind. The treadmill told him there was no need to worry about the deadline to award a government grant.

There was no need to worry about irritating redheads either.

            Shang took the treadmill next to him and within thirty seconds matched his speed. “Y’know, it’s always good to see people keep exercising after getting out of the military. Exercise is good for the brain.”

            “I hadn’t noticed. And this is just a warm-up.” Kocoum bumped his speed up a couple of notches.

            “Warm ups are good.” Shang gave him a look that said, _is this really a competition?_

            Kocoum gave a slight nod. _Yes. It is._

            Shang smiled and sped up. He kept the equipment in his gym in good condition, the treadmills could take a few high speed runs and the thudding feet that came with them. A few minutes later, he bumped his treadmill speed up.

            What happened next was a race where both competitors ran in place. The _thump thump thump_ that traveled from Kocoum’s feet to his heart increased when somebody turned up the music and Godsmack blared through the gym, followed by Disturbed, followed by Metallica. The music blurred together into one endless pounding rhythm of rage at the world that couldn’t be held back.

            Something inside, something he had tried to hold back ever since leaving the desert, something that escaped only when he saw her in a cream dress and that necklace, that something screamed to be let out.

            Kocoum ignored it upped his speed again. It was only eight miles per hour. He could go a little faster if it made his brain shut up.

            Pocahontas was confusing. John Smith was infuriating. Thomas was both and he had a stupid hat to boot. All three of them reminded him of how much he missed logic, routine, and order. Missed the uniform. Hell, sometimes he even missed the desert.

            That last thought was horrifying, but it was the one that stayed with him when his legs turned to jelly, and he stumbled off the treadmill and threw up.

            It took at least fifteen minutes before he could breathe again without wanting to heave. By then he was parked in Shang’s office with a bottle of water, a cool cloth pressed against his head, and orders not to move. The cloth felt good and Kocoum hated to remove it when the door opened and Shang walked in.

            “I think I owe you an apology.” He owed too many people too many apologies.

            “Please. If a month goes by without three people vomiting in my gym then I’m not pushing them hard enough. Trouble is.” Shang sat down and gave Kocoum a look that at one time made privates shake in their boots. “You push yourself too hard.”

            “I didn’t wait long enough after lunch.” That wasn’t true. He took a lunch break at one-thirty and it was now after six.

            Shang, being Shang, called him out. “Bullshit. You almost broke my treadmill. A couple of weeks ago I was afraid you were going to break my weight machines. You blew up at the fundraiser, and you look like you’ve been sleeping on rocks. Dude, you’re a fucking mess.”

            Curses did not often find their way out of Shang’s mouth. If he thought Kocoum looked like a fucking mess, there was a very good chance he did. “It’s been a rough month.”

            “Been more than a month since you got back from Afghanistan.”

            There was an implication in those softly spoken words. Kocoum straightened his shoulders and sat up although the movement made his head hurt. “If you’re asking if I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the answer is no. I was interviewed by an Army therapist twice. Once when I got back to the states, and again when I left the service. Both times I exhibited no signs of PTSD.”

            “Ok, ok. It’s not PTSD. But it’s something. Look, Mulan knows a guy. His name’s Chien-Po. He’s really nice, and he was in the Army before he got his therapy license.”

            “You think I’m crazy,” Kocoum said, the dizziness and the weight of knowing someone thought he was a few bullets shy of a loaded gun dismantling any strength he had to protest.

            “No.” Pause. “A little. But only a little. Look, Phillip and Aurora are hosting their annual Halloween party in a few weeks. I’m pretty sure that Pocahontas and John aren’t coming. If you come, I’ll make sure Chien-Po is there and you can talk to him. You don’t have to have a session with him, just talk for a few minutes. That’s it.”

            That was an easy way out of what could turn into a long discussion about feelings, emotions, and other things Kocoum denied having. “Are you sure Phillip and Aurora want me there?”

            “They’ll be fine. Last year, Aurora’s three lesbian aunties came by and drank everybody under the table. The year before that Snow White and Ferdinand were taking a break, and she showed up with seven men on her arm. That was the same year that Tiana brought her best friend from New Orleans and she flirted with every guy in the room. Almost started a couple of cat fights.”

            “I remember her. Charlotte.” The blond girl had flirted with him right in front of his girlfriend, which was a bold move. Pocahontas realized the other girl was joking and started flirting with her. Her security and confidence in their relationship made him think that nothing would ever come between them. How ironic that a blue-eyed blond did just that.

Kocoum took a deep breath. “If I go, and I talk to this guy, will you promise to never mention this again?”

            “Yes,” Shang said immediately. “And I’ll e-mail you the details of the party. It’s at their condo, same as always. Wear a costume.”

            A nod. “I’ll be there.”

            Two weeks later he showed up at the party with a line between his brows and a headache. He almost called Shang to beg off, but remembered that avoiding social gatherings was a sign of mental illness. And Kocoum was not sick. He was tired. He was frustrated. But he was not sick. At all.

            The party was loud and busy. Phillip was too much of a frat boy for Kocoum to have anything in common with him, and Aurora always seemed like she was dreaming. Still, they smiled when they saw him, and he gave them a very polite nod and exchanged very polite pleasantries before going to mingle.

            Chien-Po was running late, which extended the mingling far longer than Kocoum was comfortable with. There was only so much small talk and cheese-nibbling that a man could take. A couple of people, Tiana’s friend in particular, liked his costume, but that was ridiculous. Cat ears did not a costume make. They were a token effort at a costume and nothing more. There wasn’t anything to say to those people, except to repay the compliment and ask them about why they chose to dress up as Pikachu, Spongebob, or Sexy Spongebob. After a few awkward exchanges, he found himself in the corner, sipping a glass of water, cursing Shang, and wondering how long he had to wait before it was socially acceptable to leave.

            Salvation, or at least a reprieve from sipping water, came when Tiana brought out her gumbo. Parties like this were free advertising for her restaurant chain, and the mouthwatering flavor wafted into the air and made the whole party start drooling.

            Eating out was expensive and unhealthy, so Kocoum hadn’t visited Tiana’s new restaurant yet. If that gumbo tasted as good as it smelled he was going to have to remedy that. He could see the steam coming from the pot.

            “Oh wow. People brought real food.” The voice beside him sounded so happy about that fact, as if real food was something rare and precious. Curious about who would feel that way about food, even food as good as Tiana’s, Kocoum turned his head.

            Only a college student would feel that way about food. A college pest with a Superman hoodie that did nothing to hide the shock of red hair underneath it.

           

                                                                                                                                                    


	4. Chapter 4

            Thomas had a history test, a speech on gun safety to research and write, a study group for the statistics exam to prepare for, a four page paper on igneous rocks to write, and a three page writing exercise to start. All before Monday.

            It was Saturday afternoon. Late October in D.C. was nose-nippingly cold, but they hadn’t turned on the heat. Pocahontas donated too much to her favorite charity, John bought a new video game, and Thomas had splurged by buying thirty packages of ramen AND a bag of apples after Pocahontas told him about scurvy. Since their landlord didn’t accept excuses as payment in lieu of cash or checks, they were dressing in layers and ugly Christmas sweaters for the rest of the month.

            “We suck at prioritizing,” John said over the gory noise of zombies dying.

            “Excuse you, we need to save the manatees,” Pocahontas said.

            “And I need to eat.” Actually, Thomas was debating the pros and cons of stealing from GMU’s food halls. Pro: continued survival. Con: guilt.

            “Correction: I suck at prioritizing.” John saved his game and switched off the console. “For example, I need to skip Phillip and Aurora’s Halloween party for work.”

            Pocahontas looked up for her laptop. “What work?”

            “Remember when I had that great idea to offer a Spooktacular Halloween Adventure? Twelve lonely and pathetic souls have signed up to go for a midnight hike in the Shenandoah Valley, with the added bonuses of a campfire and ghost stories.”

            Thomas looked up from the creative writing assignment. “You’re going to freeze.”

            “Yes, but I’ll get paid enough for us to have heat next month. Babe, you gonna be okay going to the party by yourself?”

            She shrugged. “I was thinking of skipping it anyway.”

            “You shouldn’t. You’ve been working on that grant way too hard. Time for a break.”

            “EPA grants don’t write themselves.” Pocahontas’ job involved marketing and grant writing for businesses and non-profits. Every time she talked about work Thomas wanted to mutilate his ears with a spork, but she apparently enjoyed it.

           John bumped Thomas’ elbow. “You should go with her.”

            “No, I really shouldn’t.”

            “You two are like little trolls, huddled under your blankets, working away every waking hour. You need a break.”

            “This grant is due next Friday,” Pocahontas said. At the same time Thomas said, “I’ve got a million projects due this week.”

            “Perfect. The party’s not until next Saturday. I’ll text Phillip and tell him you’re both coming.” John paused his zombie killing to dash off said text.

            Pocahontas adjusted her glasses. “Why are you so insistent that we go to this party?”

            John kissed her. “Because when you work too hard you talk too much about rocks, trees, and every creature under the sun, and how we’re killing the earth, and our differences are keeping us apart, and did I read that article on the latest atrocity half way around the world?” He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes. “Honey, I love talking to you. I love that you’re socially aware, and that you feel passionate about the environment. Really, I do. But not when you’re stressed. And not during the game.”

            Her jaw dropped. “I do not talk over the game!”

            “It was Virginia Tech versus Miami,” Thomas said. Talking during the Virginia Tech game was just a little sacrilegious to every Virginian, even those with no ties to the school. Virginia Tech games were meant to be observed by sitting on the edge of your seat and hollering during every touchdown. Talking was permitted only if you were describing the game to a blind person. Cheering or groaning in defeat were acceptable.

            “A moment of silence for a lost Hokie game,” John said, and bowed his head in reverence. Pocahontas whacked him with a couch cushion. “Ow!”

            “You’re both idiots.”

            John hooked his arm around her waist and gave her another, much deeper kiss that made Thomas swallow and turn to Meeko. The little furball looked as amused as a cat could look. Bastard.

            They broke the kiss and John tapped the top of Thomas’ hat. “You should go because there’ll be food.”

            Well. He couldn’t argue with that.

            Being poor was an exercise in creativity and imagination. Thomas’ Halloween costume was a pair of red skinny jeans (and thank God for thrift shops), an old set of glasses Pocahontas abandoned after her prescription changed, and a hoodie with a printout of a giant S stapled to it. She good naturedly rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything until they were on the metro.

            “Is he hoping that by forcing us to go to this party, we’ll become best friends?” She added quickly, “Not that I don’t like you or anything…”

            “No, no. I gotcha.” They really only knew each other because of John. Pocahontas was John’s girlfriend. Thomas was John’s roommate. They were more acquaintances who happened to share apartment space. “I think he’s secretly hoping we’ll find something to talk about that isn’t politics.”

            Politics had been officially banned from the apartment after a minor argument that lasted three days and only ended when John locked them both out on the balcony and didn’t let them in until they raised their right hands to God and swore never to bring up the election again. Even if Michael Mouser did win the primary.

            “That might be it.” Pocahontas tapped the polyester seat of the metro car. “Dolores Umbridge was a much worse villain than Voldemort.”

            Thomas grinned. “You mean He Who Must Not Be Named. And you are right. She was much worse.”

            The party was loud. Phillip was cheerful and Aurora was showing (and they still didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl). Merida was there (and they didn’t talk about work), and so was Ms. Elsa (who told him not to call her that, but she was his boss and he’d been raised right so the Ms. was stuck there). He talked to Belle about books (he was more into history that literature, but they shared a love of David McCullough that transcended age and social status) until Adam pulled her away to grind on the floor. Since he got to eat food that was not ramen, spoke to more than one person, didn’t get drunk, and didn’t beam anybody with a beer bottle, the evening was a success. Almost feeling like a normal human being, he decided not to push his luck and went to hang out by the wall.

            Then Tiana came. Sweet, strong, wonderful Tiana. Who brought gumbo. Delicious smelling gumbo. There was hot sauce in that gumbo. And sausage. It smelled like Heaven boiled in a pot. That was the great thing about John and Pocahontas’ social circle: adult parties featured real cooking, not greasy pizza and lukewarm beer.

            “Oh wow, people brought real food,” Thomas said, more to himself than the person next to him.

            That person turned and the movement caught his eye.

            It was Kocoum.

            There was a lump in Thomas’ throat that he barely managed to swallow without squeaking out the word: “Hi.”

            “Good evening.” Kocoum sounded like he never got a lump in his throat. “I didn’t realize you would be here.”

            “Um. Yeah. John had to work and he made us promise to leave the apartment. Us being Pocahontas and me. She’s over there.”

            Pocahontas saw them and waved. She had an _oh God, not again_ look on her face, which was a little insulting. It wasn’t like he made a habit of beating up her friends. It only happened once.

            He didn’t have time to be insulted. Kocoum’s hand dropped on the hood of his sweatshirt and rubbed it back and forth, messing up his hair.

            “Hey!” Thomas pushed the hand away and smoothed his hair back into place.

            “Stop fussing. I just did that so she knows I’m not going to hurt you.”

            “Thought she was worried I’d beat you up.”

            Kocoum snorted. “That’s funny. You have a gift for comedy.”

            Any protests died when Shang and someone new came up. Shang spared Thomas a withering glance before turning his attention to Kocoum. “Kocoum, this is Chien-Po. Chien-Po, Kocoum.”

            Chien-Po was big, bald, and smiling. Really, the man had the nicest, most calming smile. It was gentle. Soothing even. He wore khakis, and a sweater that kind of looked like the sweater worn by the guy who hosted Thomas’ little sister’s favorite television show. In fact, Chien-Po looked like the guy who would be the host of a kids’ show.

            “Let me guess,” Kocoum said. “Army Ranger?”

            “I was in the Army,” Chien-Po said, and he sounded as gentle as he looked. “But I’ve been out for more than a decade.”

            “That’s not a no.”

            The serene smile didn’t leave Chien-Po’s face.

            After a few moments, Kocoum turned to Thomas. “Can you do me a favor?”

            Of all the questions people asked Thomas, that wasn’t one of the usual ones. “Yeah. Yeah! What do you need?”

            “Can you please get me a cup of gumbo?” Without waiting for a confirmation, Kocoum added, “Thank you.” Then his attention returned to the big, tranquil maybe-Army Ranger maybe-Mr. Rogers.

            Being young didn’t equate to being stupid. Thomas knew very well when he was being sent away so the grown-ups could talk. He joined the line to get real food and tried unsuccessfully not to feel bitter about being dismissed.

            The problem with Kocoum, or at least one of the problems, was that he was so very watchable. Every elegant line of his body attracted the eye. His words to Chien-Po were too soft to hear over the noise of the party, but those lips moved beautifully. It was possible that Thomas needed to skip a creative writing assignment or two because he was starting to think in language that would be great in a romance novel, but he thought Kocoum’s jaw could cut a diamond.

            Kuzco’s voice almost made him drop the bowl of gumbo. “You really have mastered the art of trying not to stare at someone and failing miserably.”

            Kuzco was a donor. An important donor who gave whopping amounts of money to Let It Go because, he said, he wanted to give something back to the community and help LGBT kids who didn’t have his advantages. Thomas suspected the real reason behind the donations was because Kuzco wanted the tax deductions. That, and an excuse to hang around Let It Go headquarters and talk to people.

            Understanding the feeling of being alone in a crowded room, Thomas couldn’t really hate Kuzco. But he could wish Kuzco would find new hobbies that didn’t involve being an egotistical jerk.

            “I’m not staring at anyone.”

            Kuzco made a ‘Pfft’ noise. “Please, Ginger, you’re a staring starer who stares. Not that I blame you. Kocoum’s hot.”

            Blushing sucked, especially when Thomas knew it was happening. His face was turning the same shade as his hair and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “He’s straight.” And Thomas had already fallen for one straight man this year. Quota reached, he wasn’t about to do it again.

            “So is spaghetti until it gets hot and wet.” Kuzco popped a spinach puff into his mouth. “You should go for it. Don’t let the fact that you beat him up get in the way! Who knows, it might lead to great sex.”

            Huh. Thomas reached a new level of blushing. Interesting. He hadn’t known his face could grow that hot.

            Another spinach puff found its way into Kuzco’s mouth. “C’mon, don’t be such a wimp. So what if you almost gave him a traumatic brain injury? Other than that you have a nice personality. And he might be curious to find out if the curtains match…”

            Kuzco might’ve been one of the largest donors to the Let It Go non-profit, and his on-again off-again boyfriend Kronk was a decent human being who made spinach puffs for every fundraiser. Those two annoying, infuriating facts were the only things that kept him from getting a bowl of gumbo dumped on his head. Instead of giving in to his less mature instincts, Thomas settled for shoving the aforementioned bowl of gumbo into Kuzco’s hands. “Gotcha. I will definitely keep your advice in mind. Can you give that to him please? I have to get going.”

            “Going where?”

            “Tests. Studying. I have to study. It’s what people do when they can’t fall back on their trust funds if they flunk out of college. Thanks for the life advice, Kuzco. You’re great for that.” Giving a smile that was a hundred percent insincere, Thomas disappeared into the party crowd before Kuzco could say anything.

            Wall to wall people. People eating, people talking, people doing something that might’ve been dancing. The apartment was ready to burst and Thomas was ready to scream because of the overflow of people. He bumped into someone’s drink, apologized, and kept scanning for the one person he needed. His key to the apartment was between his pillow and blow-up bed, and with John somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley with his adventure group, Pocahontas was his only way into the apartment. The plan went: a) find Pocahontas; b) get key; c) catch the orange line to East Falls Church Station; d) take the gray line to Spring Hill; e) walk home; f) never leave the apartment again.

            The hardest part was the first. Pocahontas was really good at making herself invisible. And there were so many people giving him tight smiles and looks that said: _We remember the fundraiser._ Thomas pulled the hoodie tighter around his head and kept looking.

            Kitchen. Talking to Nakoma. Fantastic posture, great figure and a cool, unfathomable look as she discussed…whatever it was they were talking about. Probably the latest environmental disaster, or the latest example of violence in the Mideast, or maybe the Whole Foods store rumored to be coming to the neighborhood.

            It wasn’t until he got closer to the abandoned half-empty drinks on the breakfast bar that he could hear her.

            “…Kind of cramped and a little awkward. There’s no privacy and we only have one bathroom. It wouldn’t be so bad except he’s crushing on John, and that’s so weird.”

            “Um.” Nakoma bit her lip and looked between Thomas and Pocahontas. The look on Pocahontas’ face when she turned around was one Thomas was familiar with; it was one you wear when the person you were talking about turns up right behind you. Having worn that expression himself more than once, he normally would have been inclined to sympathize with her.

            Normally. Not now. Not after she said _that._ Some secrets he was fine with the world knowing. Others he held as tightly as a homeless bum held a dollar. The one she just told to Nakoma and whoever else was listening was the second kind.

            Words could be weapons. Taking a hit in a fair fight hurt a lot less than having a vulgarity spat on you. The English language, if used properly, could ruin someone just as easily as a bullet. Knowing this, Thomas was careful to perfectly enunciate every word so there was no way she could miss his meaning. He meant every word and wanted her to know it.

            “I hate you.”

           

           


	5. Chapter 5

            Kocoum did not have Pocahontas’ phone number saved in his phone. After she broke up with him he deleted her contact information and swore never to see or speak to her again. That was a stupid and pointless thing to do. Stupid because they had too many friends in common to never see each other again. Pointless because he had her phone number memorized. When it popped up on his screen he didn’t hesitate to answer.

            “Pocahontas?”

            “Hey.” She sounded sad. What reason did she have to be upset? If it was the squid then Kocoum was going to take great pleasure in turning his face into hamburger.

            “What’s going on?” He kept his voice low. The B.I.A. was relaxed enough that nobody would frown if he took a personal call, but he didn’t want the whole office knowing his business. Or his potential plans for murder.

            “I need honest feedback. Are you free for lunch?”

            Kocoum had no idea what she meant by ‘honest feedback.’ “Are you hurt?” What he meant was: _Did he hurt you?_

            “What? No, I’m fine. But I think I might’ve hurt someone else.”

            “That’s ridiculous. You’re a vegan hipster. Vegan hipsters don’t hurt people.”

            She didn’t laugh. “I hurt you.”

            Kocoum couldn’t very well deny that. “I’m not the kind of man who forces a woman to be with him. You have every right to choose who you date. I have no claim on you.” God, but it hurt to admit that.

            “Will you still meet me for lunch?” Pocahontas sounded so sad. “Please, I really need someone to be honest with me.”

            He checked the time on his computer. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.” And it would take him at least thirty minutes to get from the B.I.A. to Chien-Po’s office, then another hour for the appointment itself, then another thirty minutes to get back to the office. “How about dinner? 5:30?”

            “Dinner’s good too. Tiana’s Palace?”

            “Tiana’s Palace.” The conversation finished, he hung up and spent the next two hours simultaneously trying to finish a report on the Wilderness Expansion Act (with new and updated information concerning its effects on Native populations that the senators were sure to ignore), and worrying about the appointment.

            Not that he would call it worrying. Kocoum didn’t believe in worrying. Worry was kin to fear; fear came from ignorance, and Kocoum was not an ignorant man. He boarded the metro that would take him to Chien-Po’s office and stiffly faced the front of the train. He knew exactly where it was taking him, and he knew exactly what the purpose of the visit was.

            He was going to see a friend of a friend. It was a doctor’s visit. It was to convince the more concerned portion of his social cohort that he was not sick. That he was healthy, both mentally and physically.

            He was so busy repeating that mantra to himself that he almost missed his stop. He barely managed to hop off the train before the doors slid shut, and once out, he wondered if he shouldn’t have stayed on. Shaking the thought from his head, he took the stairs out of the metro station and onto the slushy D.C. sidewalk.

            Chien-Po’s front desk was staffed by a squat little man with a bulbous nose and teeth that would make an Englishman cringe. He quietly shuffled the insurance paperwork and tap-tap-tapped it into the ancient looking computer. It took a few moments before Kocoum remembered why he looked familiar.

            “You’re Lefou.”

            The man didn’t meet his eyes. “My real name’s Louis.”

            “You’re Gaston’s friend.” That was a very serious accusation because Belle once wore a black eye and bruises, and after she left him she said Gaston’s friends were as bad as he was.

            Now Lefou did meet his eyes. “Not anymore.” He handed Kocoum a receipt and pointed toward a door. “His waiting room’s in there.”

            The waiting room was between the office and the front desk. It had a couple of chairs, a hibiscus plant that was clinging to the cliff of life with its fingertips, and a decoration of a Buddha surrounded by a woman, a cow, a pig, and a chicken. Kocoum was trying to remember if the Buddha had a wife when the office door opened and Chien-Po’s wide girth and smile filled the room.

            “Hi! You’re early.”

            “Early is on time and on time…”

            “…Is late.” Chien-Po laughed a little when they finished the phrase in unison. “C’mon in.”

            The office was a little homier than the waiting room, or at least the plants didn’t look like they were reciting the Lord’s Prayer in preparation for their final journey to hibiscus heaven. One wall was covered with framed degrees that ranged from a high school diploma, to a Ph.D in Psychology from UCLA. There was even a tiny square of paper announcing Chien-Po’s graduation from Basic Training Camp. Kocoum looked, but there was nothing else from the man’s Army days. The curtains which blocked the midday sun were bright blue and decorated with embroidered gold Chinese dragons. Chien-Po followed Kocoum’s gaze and smiled. “I had them specially made. They’re a little ‘anime-club’-esque, but I like them. They remind me of my grandmother’s qipaos.”

            “You’re from…?”

            “San Francisco. Third generation American. I’m sure Shang told you I’m not dangerous, unless you ask where I’m _really_ from. Then I’m liable to break the sacred bond between doctor and patient and punch you.”

            Kocoum snorted. “When I was in school the other kids would ask me if I could do a rain dance every time we had a drought. I got so fed up that I told this one kid that I’d scalp him if he asked me that again.”

            Chien-Po laughed. “That’s a good one. All I could ever do is threaten to eat someone’s cat.”

            “It gets better. The dumbass believed me and tattled to the teacher. I got suspended for a day for threatening violence.” It was truly amazing how many times political correctness didn’t work in his favor.

            “Well. That story went from funny to horrible in about two seconds.”

            A nod. “Most of my stories are like that.”

            “And your memories too?”

            It was very clever, Kocoum thought, how Chien-Po got him talking about something as innocent as irritation at stupid white kids, then segued into the real reason for this visit. The question knocked him for a loop and it took him a few moments to get his bearing back. “Everyone has bad memories,” he said, very carefully.

            “Yes. But some memories are more painful than others. And some people have more painful memories than most others. And some people need help dealing with those memories.”

            Damn. That was a good argument.

            The rest of the appointment passed, Kocoum went back to work, and when five-twenty-five rolled around he was waiting in front of Tiana’s Palace. Pretending to read the menu provided enough distraction until Pocahontas arrived.

            “You look lovely.” The words slipped out before he could catch them. This wasn’t a date and he had no right to comment on her looks.

            She smiled anyway. It was a small smile, and more than a little sad, and he wanted to break the neck of whoever made her look so dejected. “Thanks for meeting me.”

            Tiana’s Palace was packed, but when your not-date was a sorority sister of the owner, you got a quick table. Sure, it was so packed that he had to press his stomach against the table so the waiter could inch by, but the bread was so soft and buttery that it almost melted on his tongue. Soon enough they were picking over bowls of gumbo with sides of rice and broccoli, and not talking.

            Kocoum decided to bite the bullet and ask. “What’s bothering you?”

            Pocahontas set down her spoon, took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes and said: “When I said I needed honesty, I meant it. If I wanted someone to say _no, of course not_ , I would have called Nakoma. Be honest. Am I self-righteous and preachy?”

            He almost, almost said: ‘No, of course not.’ Then she gave him a knowing look and he revised his answer. “Some might put it that way. I would say you were passionate and excited about topics that most don’t have the wherewithal to think about.”

            “That’s an extremely tactful and flattering way of saying yes.”

“Getting overly excited about the environment and world affairs doesn’t make you a terrible person.” He paused. “Who told you were self-righteous and preachy?”

“Not John.” She always did know what he was thinking. “I was talking to Nakoma at Philip and Aurora’s Halloween party, and I was complaining about my living situation. It’s a tiny apartment and there are three of us. It’s a little cramped.”

Sympathy might come a little more easily if she hadn’t dumped him to live with John in that apartment. “Go on.”

“I said it was especially awkward since Thomas has a crush on John.”

This story was headed down a predictable path. “Was he right behind you when you said it?”

“Yep.”

            “Hmm.” Kocoum munched on a luke-warm stalk of broccoli. “That’s wounded pride and possibly fear taking then. You don’t need to pay any attention to it.” Telling Pocahontas, and himself, that the red-haired brat hadn’t actually meant those things went a long way towards soothing the urge to wring his neck. “If he’s not out then that closet is transparent.”

            “He’s out. He works at Elsa’s non-profit and the first time we met him he told us he was gay. The problem isn’t that I told her he’s gay. The problem is that I told someone else about his crush.”

            Kocoum thought back to the meeting in the gym. Thomas definitely didn’t like the idea of people knowing about his terrible taste in men. “That makes more sense.”

            “It’s not a big deal for me,” she said. “There’s no question that John’s straight, and even if he was bi he wouldn’t go for an eighteen year old. It’s just awkward. I’m sharing a bathroom with someone who thinks my boyfriend’s hot.”

            Biting the inside of his cheek was the only way to keep from laughing at the schadenfreude. “I’ve spoken to him all of twice, but Thomas doesn’t strike me as the unforgiving type. If you forgive him for saying you’re preachy and self-righteous and explain that living in a cramped apartment is a little frustrating and you didn’t mean to out him, he’ll probably forgive you right back.” Kocoum honestly doubted Thomas had it in him to stay mad at anybody for very long. “If he doesn’t, then let me know and I’ll smack him.”                        

            This time her smile was real. She reached across the table and took his hand. Her skin was warm and he couldn’t stop himself from running his thumb over her fingers.

            “Honesty is better than gold,” she said. “So thank you. For your honesty and your advice. You’re a good friend.”

            Good God, but those were the cruelest words in the English language.


	6. Chapter 6

Having a little sister who thought you were the coolest person on the planet was a great ego boost. Elizabeth May Gates tore out of the trailer, ran across the yard, side-stepping the broken furniture that their dad had been trying to convince the county trash pick up to come and tote to the landfill for years, and launched herself at Thomas. All while screaming at a pitch usually reserved for dog whistles.

“You’rebackyou’rebackyou’reback.MommamadetriplefudgecakeandDaddytookmeshootingandwhyareyouwearingthosefunnyshoesandMommasaidyoudon’tgetareportcardincollegeandthat’snotfair’causeIgetareportcardandIgotallAsonmyprogressreportsandDaddysaidifIkeptituphe’dtakeustoseeyouinWashingtonandmaybeseesomepoliticiansandkidnapthemandreleasethembackintothewildandwegotturkeyandMommasaidIcouldstayuplatethisweek’causeschool’soutandyou’rehere.”

Thomas blinked and tried to process all of that. “Wait. Dad took you shooting? He never took me shooting.”

“Uh-huh.” Elizabeth May looked up at him. “He’s met you.”

Ouch. The ego boost never lasted long.

Having spoken of the devil, Alexander Gates appeared in the door of the trailer, an older, scruffier version of Thomas’ mirror. He grinned when he saw his children. “Y’all gonna stand out in the yard all evening?”

When Elizabeth May didn’t let him go, Thomas pried her loose, tossed her over his shoulders and carried her. “Hi Dad.”

“Look at you.” His Dad leaned over to push the skullcap back and kissed his forehead. If his little sister was the ego boost then his dad was the soul soother. “You tell us you’ll be home for Thanksgiving and you don’t show up until after five on Wednesday. What’s up, your professors didn’t want to let you go?”

“I had to do a low-crawl to escape my Statistics class.”

“Statistics.” The word was accompanied by an exaggerated shudder that made Elizabeth May giggle and Thomas grin. “Better you than me. How’re your grades looking?”

“Straight A’s.” He still wasn’t sure if those grades were because he wanted to keep his scholarship, or because of the promised ‘date.’

“Geez, Kid, don’t look so happy about that.” Dad ruffled his hair and pushed the door of the doublewide open.

When Grace Gates, G.G. to her husband, Momma to her daughter, and Mom to her son, cooked the smells drifted through the whole home. Her cooking didn’t have the carefully tested and measured taste of Tiana’s food, or the organic ingredients Pocahontas (and wow, he really didn’t want to think of her right now) bought; sometimes the icing on a cake might be lopsided, or a vegetable might be oddly shaped because it came from a neighbor’s garden and not the grocery store. None of that mattered. Nothing compared to Mom’s cooking, or the smells that came with it. “You.” She pointed a chocolate laden knife at her son. “Look like someone who has been eating too much ramen.”

No arguing with that. Thomas looked at his sister. “She baked a triple fudge cake you say?” That triple fudge cake was the stuff of legends.

“And there’s a turkey.”

“’Course there’s a turkey. It’s Thanksgiving. There’s always a turkey.”

“Nuh-uh!” Elizabeth May shook her golden-yellow hair back and forth. “That one time we had a ham. Y’all don’t remember that?” Of course they remembered that. That was the year Dad lost his job and Mom took a pay cut. Turkey was expensive.

“Well,” Dad said after an awkward silence. “There’s turkey now. But that’s for tomorrow and tonight we have split pea soup. Let’s get your brother settled and then we can eat.”

After the first spoonful of green yummy-ness Thomas looked at his mother and said: “Mom, I missed you.” He said the same thing after the first bite of delicious turkey the next day, and said it his father after the beat up football had been stuffed back in the carport, the leftover turkey stuffed in the fridge, Elizabeth May stuffed in her bed, Mom had crashed into a deep and well-deserved sleep, and they were sitting on the couch.

Dad poked him. “That’s the third time you’ve said that in two days. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were homesick.” A shrug was the only way to say yes without actually admitting that the bustling city that was D.C. was lonelier than a country field in the middle of no-where at midnight.

“It’s good to get away from school. And work.” “Tell me about your job.” This was said with another poke.

“There’s not that much to tell. Sometimes I’m writing a grant, sometimes I’m fixing the air conditioner. Most days I’m transferring calls to my boss and trying to convince people to donate money.”

Dad nodded. “It’s good that you’re working. Any dates lined up, or is that none of my business?”

“That’s…that’s…” Boy was that a loaded question. “There’s someone I like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s got a girlfriend though.” A girlfriend who probably told John that Thomas had a crush on him. If there was one thing he had learned in high school it was that guys who were okay with having a gay classmate were not okay with having a gay classmate with a crush on them. It was very likely that guys who were okay with having a gay roommate were not okay with having a gay roommate who had a crush on them.

“Ah, yeah. That would be a problem. I was going to tell you to seize the day and ask him out, but I honestly have no idea what advice to give you in this case. You’re on your own.”

“That’s very helpful, Dad. Thanks.” Another poke, because being a smart aleck was tolerated in the Gates’ household, but only in small doses. “Without making this into an interrogation, is there anyone else?” Was there anyone else? Thomas wasn’t certain that the upcoming thing with Kocoum was a date.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, thank God. Seize the day and ask him out.” Dad kissed his temple. “There. You’ve had your fatherly advice for the visit. I’m going to bed.”

Thomas laughed a little. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Another kiss, this time on the top of his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. You’re a smart kid and you deserve someone who appreciates you. Don’t waste time going after anything but that.”

Thanksgiving break was too short. All too soon Thomas found himself back in D.C. and on the downward slope toward final exams. The closer they got to the holidays, the slower work got, freeing up more time to study and avoid his roommates. One frigid Saturday morning he ventured out of his cave (room) and went to the kitchen to hunt for food.

Cornpops. Popcorn. Frozen corn. Creamed corn in a can. Organic corn on the cob. Cat food. And one, lonely little cup of ramen. Not only did John not know how to shop for groceries, he ate all Thomas’ ramen (it wasn’t like Pocahontas would touch anything so salty). Maybe this whole crush thing was misplaced.

The door to the bathroom opened and the devil himself walked out with nothing but a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Walking over to the grocery list on the fridge, he scratched ‘soap’ in ink. “I knew I forgot something. We might be running low on conditioner too.”

Keeping his eyes firmly on the ramen package Thomas said, “That means we probably need shampoo too.” “True that.” John jotted both items down, then left the kitchen, slicking back his blonde hair, and hugging that towel even so tightly that nothing was left to the imagination. Yeah, no, that crush thing was still happening.

Swearing under his breath, Thomas abandoned his search for food and headed back to his room. Only, because this day was not terrible enough, to run into the other roommate. “Hey-”

“Hi,” Thomas said shortly, and quickly ducked into his room. Before he could close the door, she blocked it with her foot.

“Can we talk? Like adults? Please?” Meeko crawled over her foot and darted into Thomas’ room, intrigued by access to a usually forbidden sanctuary. Pocahontas had to be let in, if only to retrieve her dick of a cat. Cat retrieved before he investigated Thomas’ inflatable bed with his claws, Pocahontas sat on the floor, petting Meeko and looking like she wanted to sing but didn’t know the first words of the song. Thomas leaned against the wall and wondered if he should kick her out or apologize for being a jerk.

“What you heard at the Halloween party…I wasn’t complaining about you specifically. It’s the whole situation.”

When confronted with unfortunate and awkward conversations that had to be had, Thomas had a habit of taking off his hat and holding it in front of him, like the most ineffective shield ever. He rotated it in his hands a few times while she kept talking.

“It’s a small apartment and a lot of time it feels like we’re tripping over each other. Like I said on the train, it’s not that I don’t like you it’s just that it’s awkward.”

“And I’m crushing on your boyfriend,” Thomas said. Saying it aloud made him realize how that must feel to her. Stuffed in a too-small apartment with a boyfriend who walked around half-naked in front of their gay roommate. That would suck. God, that would suck so much.

“It adds to the awkwardness. Takes it to the next level.” She looked him in the eyes. “But I didn’t tell anyone else that. Just Nakoma, and she’s not saying a word. I’m sorry I told her.”

“I’m sorry too,” Thomas said quietly. “For what I said.” Which hadn’t been nice at all and his mother would’ve gone to town on him if she knew what he’d said. “It’s just that I got scared.”

“Of Nakoma? She wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

He shook his head. “Not of Nakoma. Of John finding out.”

Pocahontas frowned. “You should know us well enough by now to know that neither of us is homophobic.”

“There’s being comfortable with people who are gay, and then there’s having a gay roommate with a crush on you, y’know?” The more he admitted having a crush, the easier it got to say.

She nodded. “I understand, and John won’t hear about it from me.”

“Thank you.” This whole ‘adult conversation’ thing really did have its advantages. Chief among them being that he didn’t want to lock his roommate outside in subzero D.C. weather anymore. Maybe they wouldn’t ever be bestest best friends, but they could at least talk to one another.

She tucked Meeko more securely in her arms and got up. “One more thing.”

“Yeah.” Thomas put his hat back on.

“Does my hair really clog up the bathtub that much?”

That conversation was an exercise in diplomacy, as was every conversation that followed for the next two weeks. They tip-toed around each other, hesitant to say anything other than hello and comment on the weather. It was like they were both learning to speak each other’s language and desperate not to cause any offense. It felt dishonest to tip-toe around someone when you really just wanted to speak like a normal human.

To distract himself from the awkwardness of living with other human beings, Thomas had the biannual ritual of final exams. Exams were a week-long ordeal that managed to feel like three years. When he finally, finally, _finally_ stepped out from the last test, November had turned into December, he was exhausted, he had no idea what he could possibly buy for Christmas presents with the paltry thirty-two dollars and fifty cents in his bank account, and that was how he totally missed one or twenty texts leading up to Christmas.

Including one from Kocoum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late chapter. I wrote a good chunk of it one-handed, due to having the other arm full of cat.


	7. Chapter 7

               “Would you like to try some meditation chants? Chanting helps people calm down. It gives them something to focus on other than their anger,” Chien Po said. A celebrator of any and all holidays, his office had exploded into festive shades of red and green on the first of December, and only got worse as the month went on. Kocoum found himself oddly fascinated by a Buddha statue wearing a Santa hat. It looked so sacrilegious and at the same time, hilarious.

            “I am not angry. I am annoyed.”

            “You’re planning violence.” Chien Po was joking. Mostly.

            “I am planning to smack a teenager upside the head next time I see him. The world would be a far better place if every teenager was smacked upside the head at least once a week.”

            “What if he has a good reason for not responding to you?”

            “What could possibly constitute a good reason for ignoring someone’s texts for a week?” It wasn’t that the text was so important, it was more that Kocoum felt disrespected and ignored. At one point in his life, every text and phone call had been promptly and politely responded to, as military etiquette dictated. Thomas was supposed to call or text him back within a short time frame.

            “Any reason. He’s a legal adult. He can choose who he wants to interact with. It might be that he doesn’t want to talk to you. It might be that he was busy and forgot to respond. It might be that his phone died.” When Chien Po said that Kocoum stiffened. It was true, but that didn’t make it less irritating to hear. “This isn’t the military, and it isn’t the work place. Other people have choices, and they may make decisions you don’t agree with or find illogical.”

            “Logical choices would make for a more logical and orderly world. Which brings us back to smacking teenagers upside the head. I’ll be doing the Lord’s work.”

            People tended to stare in disbelief whenever Kocoum gave proof that yes indeed he did have a sense of humor. Chien Po just gave him a very unimpressed look.

            “You have trouble accepting that you can’t dictate other people’s lives. Why do you think that is?”

            That was easy. “Other people can’t be trusted to make wise decisions. Most of them need to be protected from themselves.”

            Then Chien Po asked the hardest question of all. “Did you ever fail to protect anyone?”

            Twenty minutes later Kocoum was at the gym, pushing iron and sweating through his collared shirt. The lack of athletic clothes bothered him, but the memories of his failures bothered him more. Grunting, he pulled the weights down and barely noticed when the fabric ripped.

            “Kocoum?”

            The weights crashed down, making several of the other gym members to jump and glower at him. He glowered back and curtly asked: “What?”

            Nakoma winced. “Um, you didn’t come back after your doctor’s visit…”

            “Mulan called you to tell you I was here,” he said shortly.

            She swallowed. “I brought you lunch.” She held out a paper bag decorated with golden arches and grease stains.

            “I don’t eat junk food.” He moved to adjust the weights upward, wanting to see if increasing the strain would allow him to forget Afghanistan and the people he saw die there and Chien Po’s stupid question. Really, what kind of therapist asked you about stuff you didn’t want to talk about?

            “We can go out for lunch then. I told Powhatan we’ll be out for the day. He didn’t ask too many questions.”

            “Our boss is remarkably forgiving. We shouldn’t take advantage of that. You should go back to the office and tell him my doctor’s appointment went into overtime, but I’ll be back shortly.” That was close enough to the truth. Chien Po was a doctor, the appointment had run five minutes over because Kocoum refused to discuss certain things, and he would be back as soon as he worked his aggression out on the elliptical machine.

            Nakoma looked like she wanted to cry. “Are you still having nightmares?”

            Glares were Kocoum’s specialty. He once made a private cry after he glared at him. He fixed Nakoma with one of his worst and coolly said, “I’m not sure how that’s your business.”

            She didn’t cry. Instead, she got mad, which he wasn’t expecting. “It’s my business because I stayed up to talk when you called in the middle of the night. It’s my business because Pocahontas trusted me and I slept with you after you guys broke-up and I felt sorry for you…”

            Few things hurt a man’s pride more than being told he had been a pity-fuck. “It’s not my fault you were desperate enough to throw yourself at the first man you saw. Your low self-esteem is not my problem.”

            The bag of cold, greasy fries remained at his feet long after she threw it down and stormed out. When he finally moved to pick it up and toss it, his phone rang.

            Thomas. Kocoum’s eye twitched and he tried very hard to keep his voice steady when he pushed the green answer button on the screen. “Hello.”

            “Hi.” Wow, that was loud. A cough, followed by a more regular sounding “Hi. Hi. It’s me. Thomas.”

            “So I gathered.”

            “Um. Right. So, you sent me a text last week and I did that thing where I mentally replied but forgot to actually reply and I’m really sorry ‘cause that is so rude. It’s just that last week was exam week and I really didn’t mean to ignore you, but I was holed up under a rock trying to memorize stupid shit about geology. I’m sorry.”

            It took a moment for Kocoum to process all of that. “You had exams?” Studying would be a good excuse not to respond to a text. Or at least a passable reason.

            “Yeah.”

            “And your grades?” Neither one of them had forgotten about Kocoum’s offer of dinner, and he was fully prepared to hold up his end of the bargain. There had to be at least one person he could save from poor life decisions.

            Thomas hesitated a moment too long. “Got an A in everything except Geology. I wasn’t able to memorize the name of every kind of stupid rock in the state of Virginia, and it turns out that our state has no gold. Who knew?”

            Something about that just screamed bullshit. “Did you intentionally not get an A in that class?”

            “No,” Thomas said quickly. “It’s just…I’m dumb when it comes to Geology.”

            “You are not dumb. Anybody who gets a scholarship to go to college isn’t dumb. What happened?”

Silence. It stretched on for so long Kocoum thought the redhead had hung up on him. “Hello?”

“I’m still here. It’s just…why do you care? I’m nobody to you. I’m just the idiot who clocked you over the head with a beer bottle.”

“Again, you’re not stupid. As for your other question…” Kocoum swallowed. “You made a mistake and you reached out to me to make it better. I can respect that enough to let the mistake go and make sure you get a decent start in college. Even if you didn’t get an A in Physics, you at least tried. You’re better off for aiming high than you would be if you just shot for mediocre. Physics is a difficult topic.”

“Yeah. No arguments there. But hey, no straight As, no dinner. You’re still off the hook.”

  1. “Am I?” Kocoum felt like the cat who ate the canary. “Tell me, was it Geology or Physics that you bombed?”



Another stretch of silence. This one ended with: “God damn it.”

“You’re a terrible liar. What’s your GPA?”

“Four point oh.” It was a little amazing how someone could get straight A’s and sound so put out by that fact.

Somehow or another, this kid always ended up making Kocoum want to laugh. “Where.” He couldn’t make himself sound stern if his life depended on it. “Are you now?”

“Apartment. ‘Bout to go to work. I’m leaving in a couple of days for Christmas break.”

“Hmm.”

“Really! I told my parents I’d be home for Christmas break. I got my little sister a Barbie.”

“I believe you. I’ve got a dinner planned with Shang and Mulan in January. None of us like the idea of going out on New Year’s Eve, paying too much for dinner and getting t-boned by a drunk driver so we always celebrate the week after.” Ah, there was that familiar cynicism. For a moment there, he was afraid he was getting too happy. “I’ll text you the details. You let me know if you want to come. If you don’t, then I’ll leave you alone.” He wasn’t about to harass a teenager.

“…Okay,” Thomas said. “I’ll come.”

“I haven’t sent you the details yet.”

“I’ll make sure I’m there.” The kid sounded a little braver this time, as if he had made up his mind about something. He was very, very determined. It was disgustingly adorable.

Public servants didn’t get paid much, but they did have good vacation time. The drive from D.C. to Richmond was hell, but that was normal. I-95 was always a mess and with everyone and their dog going home for the holidays it was a _crowded_ mess. Four hours and two traffic jams after he left his apartment, Kocoum arrived at his parents’ home on Grove Avenue.

Some adult children worry about turning into their parents. They hear the tone of their voices when they discuss the fools on cable news. They agonized over political opinions to make sure they had the proper mix of ideas that wouldn’t parrot their parents, but wouldn’t offend them either. There was always the pull between wanting to do meaningful work while at the same time staying in your parents’ tax bracket.

Kocoum didn’t have to worry about any of that. He had turned into his father years ago and knew it. The broad shoulders had been passed down, as had the habit of crossing his arms when standing. Problems were dealt with coolly and effectively, and every bill was paid on time and in full. Mistakes were kept to a minimum and messes were cleaned up immediately. It was a very orderly lifestyle.

Greetings were less formal than usual, it was Christmas after all. Kocoum embraced his father and smiled a little for his mother to make her happy. She beamed back, but he could feel her hands checking his ribs.

“I’ll make pancakes tomorrow.” Once upon a time Kocoum allowed himself to eat junk food for breakfast and Ahoyka still remembered that. He suspected it was her favorite period of motherhood.

“With chocolate chips?” Behind her back, his father rolled his eyes good naturedly. Jacob shared his son’s opinion of both junk food and indulging the women of the house. It was rather condescending, but Kocoum had a feeling that his mother knew they were humoring her and appreciated it. It was an irritating game and he would have preferred to speak plainly, but she looked too happy for him not to play along.

At least dinner was healthy. Broccoli, meatloaf, and brown rice. The conversation was low-key and carefully un-intrusive. His parents had long mastered the art of feathering out information without prying. In exchange for hearing about his projects about work, the few dates he’d gone on after the break-up (and thank God they didn’t know what happened at the fundraiser.), and his work-outs at the gym, they told him about the concert series tickets they bought, the new family down the street who just bought an extremely yappy dog, and news concerning his sister who would be in tomorrow. It was a very pleasant conversation, touching on harmless topics.

Hardball came later, after his mother kissed him good night and went to bed and his father offered him a brandy. Jacob’s study was made for brandy. Even with a large bay window and a lamp on his oak desk the room was dark. It was a room for work and discussions of politics and writing checks to pay the bills. As a child, Kocoum wanted a room just like it when he grew up.

“I heard something interesting today about the highway.” It was expected that Kocoum knew about the new highway; that the newspapers were reporting how the recently elected governor and half of the Virginia Department of Transportation got kickbacks from contractors bidding for the opportunity to plan a route starting at Virginia Beach and going through to the Cumberland Gap, hitting every dinky little town along the way. Why shouldn’t he be expected to know about the highway? He had always kept up with the news and the machinations of Virginia’s politicians before.

He wasn’t about to disappoint his father now. “About the plans to build through tribal land?” Despite being a huge state, Virginia had very little land set aside for the descendants of her original inhabitants. What was set aside was guarded fiercely.

“There’s talk about imminent domain. We’ve contacted the legislature but they’re useless.”

The legislature was useless and rain was wet. “What about the Senators?”

“Senator Marner isn’t going to make it to another term. They caught him on the phone offering a judgeship to somebody’s daughter. Goddamn carpetbagger’s probably got his hand in every lobbyist’s pocket. Senator Jackson, on the other hand, is a possibility.”

“I’ve met Jackson.”

“You told us. He asked you a question about your work.”

“He asked Director Powhatan a question, and I was there and knew the answer. Not quite the same.”

“What did you think of him?”

There was an unexpected question. “I can’t recall the specifics of the discussion, but he’s a smart man. He actually read the draft of the law. Why?”

His father sipped his brandy. “We’re considering sending a delegation to Washington D.C. to lobby for support. I’ve been researching lobbying laws all week. It leaves a foul taste in my mouth.”

“Why not just hire a lobbyist? Let them worry about the laws.”

“We’re not a corporation, we don’t have that kind of money. But we do have resources.”

Resources meaning offspring. “I can’t lobby for you.”

“I’m not asking you to. There’s probably a law somewhere that says federal employees can’t lobby senators on behalf of their parents. I wouldn’t ask you to risk your career.”

“So what are you asking?” Because his father was asking something and Kocoum was fairly sure his answer would be yes.

“Help the delegation write summaries of what we want. Help us prepare to meet the vultures and articulate what we want them to do. You know the language to use, the protocol. You can help us prepare.” Like his son after him, Jacob had worn a uniform. He’d worn it for twenty-two years and sometimes it seemed like he had never taken it off. He had learned the military’s lessons well, and his favorite lesson, as he repeated over and over during Kocoum’s childhood, was that failing to plan was planning to fail.

“Also, I’d like to stay with you when I have to visit D.C.” Between the house, two cars, two state pensions, and various investments and Roth IRAs, his parents had over a million dollars in assets, and they didn’t intend to squander that on hotel room when they had children with houses with spare bedrooms.

“They’ve been here since 1607 and they’re still screwing us over.” Kocoum’s answer was inevitable. Someone was fucking with his people. Stomping over their territory and making money from the whole expedition. It was revolting and Kocoum knew he would do what was needed to make it stop. He was the warrior going forth to protect his people.

The only problem was that sometimes he wished he didn’t always have to be the warrior. Sometimes he wanted to close his eyes and turn off whatever made him stress over the welfare of other people. It was exhausting and it often felt like he never left Afghanistan and still had a platoon to look after.

But he couldn’t rest. Not yet anyway. There was still too much to do.

“Of course.”

 

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'll try to have the next chapter up sometime soon. 
> 
> The next chapter is going to be pretty interesting. Up until now I've been alternating the chapters between these two crazy kids, and that's 'bout to change. The next chapter will feature both of their pov's, starting with Thomas.


	8. Chapter 8

            Pocahontas was judging him. He could see it in her perfectly trimmed eyebrow that was arched almost to her hairline. She had every right to judge him; he was going on a maybe-kinda-sorta-not-really date with her ex. That was the sort of thing that deserved to be judged. If she wanted to slap him then he wouldn’t have blamed her.

            Except she didn’t know about the maybe-kinda-sorta-not-really date with Kocoum. He’d been careful to leave that fact out. No, she wasn’t judging him for that.

            Instead, she was judging him for his fashion sense.

            “Looking at you always raises the question of how did the stereotype of gay men knowing how to dress well become a thing.”

            “What? What’s wrong?” There were a lot of stereotypes Thomas was more than happy to leave buried in the dust, but he’d always felt that his clothes could be adequately described as ‘classic.’

            “Tiana’s Palace is not a jeans and t-shirt kind of place.”

            “I’ve never been.” Actually, he’d never eaten anywhere that wasn’t a jeans and t-shirt kind of place.

            “Khakis, collared shirt, tie and a blazer are the norm.”

            Thomas didn’t have a blazer. He had one collared shirt that his parents had replaced for Christmas, but it didn’t go with his solitary tie. Even he knew that stripes and polka dots weren’t a good combination.

            “Do you have a sweater?” Pocahontas asked, sounding desperate. When he confirmed that yeah, he had a dark blue one that could go over the shirt, she breathed a sigh of relief.

            “This guy had better be a helluva date. What’s his name?”

            Thomas thought fast. “He’s not out…” There might not be a closet for Kocoum to exit, but that was as good a reason as any not to give any telling personal details.

            “Gotcha, gotcha.” She was a nice person not to pry and he felt more than a little wrong for lying. “Still, he must like you a lot.”

            He shook his head and looked in his closet, supposedly for any alternatives but really to avoid looking her in the eye. “I don’t think so. This is more of a…pity date. It’s an obligation.”

            “Nobody’s obligated to hang around you and take you out. He asked you out because he likes you.” She batted his arm. “You’re likeable. And a ginger. Can’t ignore the possibility of a ginger fetish.”

            If she was trying to make him laugh, it worked. Thomas had a smile on his face for the whole train ride from their apartment to the city. That smile didn’t go away when he left the station and came up the stairs into frigid temperatures and the harsh glow of streetlights, or when he dodged panhandlers. It stayed plastered on his face all the way to the restaurant. It was only when he saw the bright, flashing lights of Tiana’s place and Shang standing beneath them looking at his watch that the smile slipped away.

            It was a little quirk of humanity that people tended not to like you after you bashed a beer bottle over their friend’s head. If he thought hard enough, Thomas could still hear Shang’s voice ringing in his ears. He hung back a few paces to watch the other man tap on his phone, before telling himself to suck it up.

            “Hi.” Wow, was that his voice? He sounded like a normal person instead of a terrified chipmunk.

            Shang looked at him. Thomas was fairly certain that look made people run faster on treadmills and lift heavier weights. He forced himself to meet that look and not shiver.

            “Hi,” Shang said after a moment. “Kocoum said you were coming.”

            “Yep.” Again, Thomas forced himself. This time to smile. “He invited me.”

            “That makes sense.” Shang checked his phone again.

            “Makes sense?”

            “You didn’t break his heart or steal his girlfriend. You’re easy to make peace with.” His phone buzzed. “Mulan’s on her way. She had to work late. Kocoum will be here in a few minutes. He said he sent you a text.” Shang managed to make that last sentence sound so judgmental, even though he had no way of knowing Thomas had missed that message.

            Thomas quickly checked his phone and unsuccessfully tried to stop his ears from turning red. Sure enough, there was a message from Kocoum stating he would be there shortly.

            Three and a half minutes was an awfully long time to wait. Shang wasn’t much for small talk and things were almost too awkward when Mulan and Kocoum finally showed up. The awkward abated somewhat when they sat down and Tiana came over to greet Mulan and beam at the men. She left them with complimentary bowls of gumbo and menus.

            The awkward came back when Thomas looked at the menu and the prices printed on the right side of every page. Yeah, this place was definitely not a jeans and t-shirt joint. He should have figured that out from the soft jazz music and Tiana’s long, white dress. All of a sudden his shirt felt too tightly buttoned against his throat.

            Honestly, who the hell had fifteen dollars to spend on a meal?

            “So, Thomas, you’re at George Mason University?” Mulan asked.

            “GMU, yeah.” Even school was an easier topic to think about than the fact that this restaurant wasn’t for people like him.

            “You’re a freshman, right?” She was trying to be polite and include him in the conversation. School was something everybody at the table could relate to; it wasn’t like he could offer much of an opinion on security clearances and the embarrassingly small pay raises federal employees were receiving this year. “Do you have a major picked out yet?”

            “Just finished my Sophomore year, actually.” There were some strange looks as everyone calculated his age. “I got credit for AP classes, and summers at the Lord Fairfax Community College,” he said before anyone asked. He’d figured out early on that college was expensive and spreading the cost out through eight years was easier than cramming it into four. “And I want to major in accounting.”

            “There’s always a need for accountants,” Shang said. “If you’re interested in the public sector, I hear the IRS is hiring.”

            “The public sector is fine.” Thomas’ dad said public employees had good insurance. “But I’d like to find a job that wouldn’t cost me my soul.”

            Mulan nodded in agreement, and Kocoum turned his head. It was barely visible, but just for a second he smiled. It looked good on him.

            Then the waitress came and asked if they were ready to order.

….

            Quickly scanning the menu, Kocoum opted for a shrimp, rice, and sausage dish. He’d never been to Tiana’s Palace, but if her dish at the Halloween party was any indication, it would be hard to make a bad choice.

            Mulan and Shang ordered, and the waitress looked at Thomas. The redhead had an odd look on his face, as if he really wanted to order a hole to open up and swallow him. “Um, can I have the salad please?”

            “The salad, and?” Kocoum Looked at him. Salads were appetizers, not full meals.

            “And Thousand Island dressing.” For some reason a Look that used to make Privates and Specialists cower in fear didn’t have any effect on Thomas Gates.

            “Are you…” Mulan hesitated. “…On a diet?” That had to be a hard question to ask, because Thomas was mostly made up of teenage angst and bones.

            “No. I just…feel like a salad.”

            Nobody, not the waitress, not Mulan and Shang, and certainly not Kocoum believed that for half a heartbeat.

            “He’ll have what I’m having,” Kocoum said, silently daring the redhead to argue.

            “I don’t want…”

            “Y’all want drinks?” The waitresses here all seemed to be of the Southern variety.

            “Tea,” Shang and Mulan said in unison.

            “Water. And just the salad. Please.” Thomas looked desperate.

            “Water. And two of the shrimp and sausage jambalaya.” Kocoum looked annoyed.

            “So that’s two teas, and two waters, and…”

            “I’m sorry, this was a mistake.” Thomas pushed his chair back, almost colliding with a waiter carrying a full tray of food. “Sorry, sorry! Mulan, Shang, I’m sorry. I gotta go.”

            Enough. Kocoum calmly placed his napkin on the table. “Can you please excuse us? This’ll just take a moment.”

            Mulan and Shang suddenly became very interested in the basket of still-warm bread on the table. “Go ahead,” she said quickly. Shang nodded.

            “It’s not going to take a moment. There is no moment to be taken.” Thomas had just enough sense to shut up when Kocoum took his arm and half dragged, half led the kid through the restaurant and out into the cold. It would only take a moment, if only because ice was forming on the street and the cold would be enough to drive them back inside as soon as possible.

            There were people on the street but one glare from Kocoum sent them scurrying about their own business. When he fixed that glare at Thomas he immediately felt guilty for doing so because the redhead looked ready to cry.

            Kocoum wasn’t in the habit of being gentle, but he kept his voice as soft as possible. It still had an edge to it that would have been better on a razor blade. “Any particular reason you let me take you out to dinner and then don’t want to eat?”

            “If you’re going to manipulate me into a semester of exhausting myself so you can take me on a not-date you could at least pick a jeans and t-shirt place!”

            Kocoum blinked. When he couldn’t translate that language he said: “Excuse me?”

            “It’s…” Looking horribly humiliated, Thomas waved a hand back at the restaurant. “It’s expensive.”

            “Tiana’s? There’s nothing on that menu the middle class can’t afford.” Something clicked in Kocoum’s brain. Something that tied the bags under Thomas’ eyes, the grungy, wrinkled clothes, and the addiction to free food all together. “You’re not middle class.”

            The second he said it he regretted it. Thomas took a step back, and God Almighty, the kid looked ready to cry at any second.

            “I’m sorry. I gotta go.” It was a minor miracle that Thomas managed to cross the sidewalk without slipping on the ice. That miracle was completely useless because he stepped out into the street right in front of a car.

            _Not another one._

            Tires screeched, a horn blasted, and Kocoum barely managed to grab him and pull him out of the way of the car. The ice worked its slippery magic then, and he found himself with an armful of redhead. Safe, still-breathing, all in one piece redhead. Nobody was dead. Nobody was going home in a box. There was at least one person he had managed to save.

            The car, a red old timer that looked like it belonged in a historical drama, stopped just long enough for a woman in a fur coat to shout out that she would skin them alive if she saw them again. When they didn’t answer, she spat and zoomed off, leaving a cloud of emissions behind her.

            Kocoum barely noticed her. There was something peaceful about having someone else pressed against his chest. Thomas was breathing hard, but he wasn’t hurt, and he wasn’t pulling away from Kocoum’s offered protection. Being able to shield someone from all the dangers the world had to offer earned Kocoum a few moments of indulgence. He smoothed down the red hair, and waited for Thomas to calm down before matching his breathing with the redhead’s.

            “Kocoum?”

            “Yes?”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “I wish you would stop saying that.” Kocoum let go so they could look each other in the eyes. “You’re not paying, so what’s the problem?”

            “It’s one thing to let somebody buy you take-out dinner, but this isn’t take-out. It’s not a date either. It’s just awkward.”

            No denying that. “I’m not gay,” Kocoum said, because that was true. “But if you want to think of this as a date, go ahead.” He was confident enough for that. Besides, anyone who made him feel like a protector could qualify as a date. “And it’s not take-out because take-out should be called ‘heart attack in a bag.’” That got a small, hesitant laugh. “Now, let’s go back inside. You eat, I’ll pay, we’ll ask Mulan what she does for a living and listen to her vague answers, and if we need to talk, we’ll talk after dinner.”

            Thomas didn’t look convinced. “It’s still expensive.”

            It took all of Kocoum’s willpower not to roll his eyes at that. “Ok. How ‘bout if we skip the appetizers,” which were all Goddamn salads, “substitute water for soda, and pass on desert?”

            Thomas nodded, and Kocoum led him back inside and to the table. Mulan and Shang were too polite to mention anything, and when the waitress asked if they were ready to order, Thomas quietly asked for whatever Kocoum was having, the waitress smiled, and food was eaten.

            It was only after dinner was done and paid for that they had the chance to be honest with each other.

            “Are you going to be okay going home?” Kocoum asked, because it was cold, slippery, and he didn’t trust Thomas not to attract muggers on the train.

            “I’m gonna be fine.” Thomas promptly slipped on the curb and was only saved from a broken ankle by Kocoum’s reflexes. “Um…”

            “Why don’t I just take you home in my car.” That was not a suggestion, and Thomas was smart enough not to argue with him.

            “The speed limit’s fifty-five,” Thomas said, once they hit the main drag and Kocoum’s second hand (but well-maintained and very safe) car went no faster than fifty.

            “The roads are slippery, it’s dark, I don’t know this stretch of road very well, and the maximum is not a minimum,” Kocoum replied, without taking his eyes off the road. It was the kind of argument nobody could seriously dispute. “I have every intention of dropping you off in one piece.”

            “Are you always this over-protective?”

            Sometimes honesty was the best policy. “I am. It’s why Pocahontas and I broke up. That and I don’t smile enough.”

            “It’s not a bad thing to be protective,” Thomas said quietly. “It’s just that I’m pretty sure you’ve driven before and you seem to have a handle on it.” He paused. “And you _do_ smile.”

            “No, she was right. I don’t smile. Ever.”

            “You smiled in the restaurant when I mocked the IRS.”

            “I did not.”

            “You’re smiling now.” Thomas leaned over to tap the edges of Kocoum’s lips. “Those’re definitely turned up. Yeah, that’s a smile.”

            “Do you always harass people when they’re driving?”

            “You said I could think of this as a date. I usually touch my dates.” It was adorable how hard he was trying. Thomas seemed to realize that, and blushed. “Sorry. Flirting isn’t my strong point.”

            A red light finally offered Kocoum the chance to look to his right. “If you’re going to flirt, then I’m going to be as protective as I want.”

            It was as blatant an offer as he could make, and for a second he worried Thomas wouldn’t understand. He was fully prepared to walk away, to leave the nineteen year old white kid alone. Despite the intense satisfaction to be had from providing someone with food and saving them from getting run over by a car, he was not going to force Thomas to act out some horrible game where they exchanged dating for the feeling of getting to keep someone safe. In fact, it was a terrible suggestion, and he hoped the redhead could say no. Then they could part ways in guilt-free peace.

            Thomas said, “Okay,” just when the light turned green.

            “Okay,” Kocoum said. They drove in silence for a little bit. Thomas fidgeted, and Kocoum kept quiet. Let the little pest fidget for a while; he had to work things out.

            The apartment complex was old, but in a safe part of town. Kocoum pulled up in front of the building, silently noting the clean sidewalk, the chipped paint on the door, and the intermittently shiny windows belonging to those residents who were not teens and twenty-somethings and knew how to clean. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to insist on a move.

            “You will keep your grades up.” That was non-negotiable. He didn’t ‘date’ fools or drop-outs. “You’re going to eat three meals a day. You’re going to watch where you’re going and not step out in front of any cars.” Thomas blushed at that one. Good. “And no alcohol.”

            “I’m in college!”

            “And you’re what, sixteen?”

            “Nineteen.”

            “Nineteen isn’t twenty-one. No alcohol.”

            Thomas pouted, which was both adorable and annoying. Adorable, because his lip stuck out and he didn’t seem to realize this. It was like looking at a puppy that wanted a treat. Annoying, because Kocoum didn’t like bratty teenagers. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to be my dad, or fifty shades of gray.”

            “Don’t put ideas in my head. For now, just consider me an overprotective acquaintance.”

            “And you can consider me a flirt.” Thomas swallowed when he said that. He wasn’t as confident as Kocoum was in making bullshit deals to fill holes in his life. No problem, they could work on that.

            “Flirt. Okay.” Kocoum shrugged. “So what do you want? Keep in mind that I’m not gay.”

            “Sex,” Thomas blurted out.

            “Again: I’m. Not. Gay.”

            More fidgeting, tinged with embarrassment. “Dates?”

            Kocoum thought about that. There was nothing inherently ‘gay’ about meeting another man for dinner. Besides, as long as Thomas didn’t flip out over the price of food, he wasn’t bad company. As a bonus, he could be as protective as he wanted on a date. “Twice a month.”

            “Twice a month and three times in June.”

            “What’s so special about June?”

            “My birthday’s on the thirteenth of June.”

            Kocoum knew the corners of his mouth were pushing up and he didn’t care. “Alright. Twice a month and three times in June. Anything else?”

            “A kiss.”

            “For the final time, I’m not…”

            “You’re not gay, and I’m not a little kid. I don’t want someone standing over me to make sure I eat, and you don’t want to kiss another guy. Sucks to be us.”

            The attitude was infuriating, but he did have a point. After internally debating for a few moments, Kocoum nodded. “Fine. Once a month.”

            “Starting this month.”

            “Fine.”

            “Starting tonight.”

            Eye roll. “I get it. Anything else?”

            The red hair shook side to side. There was an awkward silence then, as if he was afraid he might be hit for daring this much, Thomas leaned in. He hovered a little, clearly uncertain of how far to go, how much Kocoum would allow. Holding back a sigh, Kocoum closed the gap between them and kissed him. The aim was off, Thomas’ lips caught his a little to the left, but the kiss didn’t last long enough for that to matter. After a few seconds they broke apart and Thomas was fumbling with his seatbelt and the car door.

            “I’ll text you!” he yelled, almost, but not quite, slipping on the ice on the sidewalk. A few moments later he had the front door to the apartment building open and was gone.

            Kocoum watched him go, and wondered just what the hell he had gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These crazy kids, I swear.


	9. Chapter 9

            “You met someone?” Chien-Po looked genuinely happy for him, which was sweet. If you needed a therapist to work out the cats in your head, it was better to have a nice therapist. “That’s great! Where did you meet her?”

            “At a party,” Kocoum said slowly. “We’re keeping it quiet for a variety of reasons.” That was true and hopefully it would prevent any awkward questions like what ‘her’ name was. “We went on one date earlier this month.” On February second. Thomas had been wide-eyed and fidgety and Kocoum had been very insistent on paying for the meal. The pest couldn’t feed himself, let alone feed the two of them together. “Nobody knows.”

            “Hey, there is nothing that says you have to announce a new relationship from the rooftops. There are some advantages to taking things slowly.”

            “Slow is good here. My partner…” is a man. “Is young. And white.”

            “Ah.” Chien-Po thought about that for a moment. “Do those things bother you?”

            Talk about loaded questions. Maybe he should have stuck to talking about gender. Creating a sexual identity crisis would’ve been less painful to answer. “My partner is a nineteen-year-old college student from the middle of No-where, Virginia, lost in one of the meanest cities in America. Part of me is thrilled about that. I have someone to protect. I have someone in a foreign land who _needs_ me.

            “Part of me is disgusted with myself. I have nightmares every night and I’m using a teenager to feel like I can control something.”

            “Does this person know about the nightmares?”

            “About the nightmares specifically? No.” Kocoum hesitated. “But I think they might have guessed about the PTSD.”

            “Do you think you might hurt them? Not just physically, but emotionally, or sexually.”

            “No.” He could answer that with one hundred percent certainty. “I’m bossy, not an abuser.”

            “I didn’t think you were, but I have an ethical responsibility to ask. What about the fact that they’re white? How do you feel about that?”

            That was a trickier question, and the response was far more emotional. “Do you know that Native American Indians make up zero point two percent of the state’s population?” He’d come across that little factoid one day while clicking through the Census Bureau website. “And I’m not certain how many are full blooded Native Americans and how many are mixed race. My high school had four other First Nation kids in it. Four. Out of more than a thousand. My unit in Afghanistan had two, and one of them was me.” And thinking about Namontack brought back the smell of blood and the sound of gunfire. “Andrew Jackson did what he set out to do. I would like my children to look like me. I would like them to share my culture. But I’m not sure that would be possible if I didn’t marry another Native American.”

            Saying it felt refreshing, but part of him also expected pushback. He’d given that explanation before, to his college Sociology professors, and white girlfriends who Didn’t Get It. No matter how gently he tried to phrase things, or how he tried to explain why it was important to marry in his culture, all he ever got in return was platitudes about how he could teach his future mixed race children to value their culture(s), and how race didn’t matter because of the past twelve American Presidents, two had been Black and one had been Asian.

            His favorite part of Sociology class discussions was when kids who were seven-eighths white and one-eighth Native American told him to stop denying their heritage.

            Chien-Po just nodded. No guilt trip, no arguing, no fake outrage, just a blissful nod that meant a lack of judgement even if it didn’t mean validation. “That makes sense. So what are you going to do?”

            Good question. “I’m going to go on a date tonight with a person who is the exact opposite of what I need in a partner. I’ll be overprotective and bossy because that’s who I am. They’ll probably resent that, but will be too shy to say anything. In two weeks we’ll go on another date. In March we’ll go on two more dates. We will continue this charade until one or both of us comes to our senses and ends this disturbing mockery of a relationship.”

            It was a bitter way to end the session, and the date didn’t go much better. “Take your hat off,” was the first thing out of Kocoum’s mouth when he saw Thomas at the sushi joint. “Please,” he added belatedly.

            “It’s freezing.” February in D.C. was a good month for blizzards.

            “We’re inside. Hat. Off.” When Thomas didn’t move Kocoum swiped the offending garment off with one fluid motion. The protest was cut off with a stern glare, but the silence was deafening. It continued until they were seated at the booth and looking over the menu.

            “Have you ever had sushi before?” Kocoum asked. He was not surprised when Thomas shook his head.

            “Ariel suggested it. I asked for recommendations for dinner.” And he had no doubt Thomas had asked for inexpensive restaurants. This was some suspiciously cheap sushi.

            “Question: I know Ariel’s married…”

            “She’s straight. She started working for Let It Go because she needed to get out of her apartment while her husband was deployed.”

            Eric was another damned squid. Kocoum moved the subject on. “So what do you do there?”

            “Little bit of everything. I write grants, manage the budget…”

            “You manage the budget?” That seemed like an awfully huge job for a teenager to take on.

            “It’s a small non-profit, and Ms. Elsa helps me a lot. The hardest part is remembering to keep all the funds straight, and making sure we report whatever the federal government wants to hear about the grants.” He took a sip of water. “We’re actually waiting to hear back about a proposal we submitted to HUD.”

            “Timeline?”

            “We’ll know if we got it sometime next month.”

            The waitress and owner was a woman who Kocoum’s mother would have kindly called robust, and who the rest of the world would have dubbed morbidly obese. She spared Kocoum a withering look, called Thomas ‘Angelfish’ in such a condescending way that it might as well have been a slur, then brought two rolls of sushi that looked nothing like the pictures on the menu.

            Kocoum glanced at the woman’s nametag. “Ms. Ursula, this isn’t what we ordered.”

            “You two wanted a crab roll and a flounder special, right?” She nodded at the dishes. “There you go. Take it or leave it.”

            Thomas took a bite and blanched. Right. Kocoum took his fork away and laid his own chopsticks down on the table. “I’m not paying for this.”

            “Hmmm.” The woman leaned forward, offering him an unwanted view down her shirt. If fabric could scream that cotton would have sounded like the personification of agony. He was never going to scrub that sight out of his eyes. “There’s a contract at work here, Honey. I provide you with food, you pay the price. If you don’t pay the price…” she hissed a little through her teeth. “I have to escalate. Do you really want the kiddo here to spend a night in jail?” She pinched Thomas’ cheek.

            “The fish is discolored, the rice is soggy and dripping off the roll, and the seaweed is flaking. Go ahead, call the cops. Call the Department of Health while you’re at it. And don’t.” Kocoum grabbed her wrist. “Don’t touch him again. _Angelfish_.”

            She looked from his hand to his face and smiled like the devil with a new soul impaled on his pitchfork. “Get the hell out of my restaurant.”

            “Gladly.” He waited until they were safely outside before taking the time to fit the hat snugly around Thomas’ ears. “Tell Ariel her recommendation was terrible.”

            “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I told her the cheaper the restaurant the better, and she warned me the owner was really weird, but I didn’t think she’d be that weird.”

            Kocoum cut him off. “It’s not the end of the world.” Granted, he was reporting that place to the Department of Health tomorrow, and he was going to tell everyone he knew that the place was sketchy as hell, and how dare that woman threaten them, but objectively it was not the end of the world.

            “Kind of ruined the date though.” Thomas looked like a kicked puppy, which had the bizarre effect of improving Kocoum’s mood. He could do something about that.

            “It’s six thirty-eight on a Friday evening. Date’s not over yet. You like Italian?”

            The Italian place had red and white checkered tablecloths and a guy who played the accordion and sang to the customers. Thomas took his hat off without a fight and looked relieved when he saw the prices on the menu.

            “You’re not paying,” Kocoum said. He was mentally planning the complaint he was going to file about that sushi joint, and now would be a really bad time for an argument over who was going to pay.

            The nod was reluctant. “You, um, lemme start over. How did you do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Make her back down like that. It was pretty amazing.”

            Kocoum shrugged. “She’s just another bully, no different than the assholes I met on the playground. The trick is to stand your ground. She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

            “No worse than any asshole on the playground.”

            The spaghetti and meatball special was filling and blissfully hot. It was the kind of meal that warmed you to your bones and Kocoum left the restaurant in a better mood than when he’d arrived.

            “Do you like museums?” Thomas asked. The kicked puppy look was gone and he looked brighter now. “Like, the Smithsonian?”

            “The Smithsonian is good.” Kocoum hadn’t had as much time as he liked to visit the city’s museums. Most of his visits happened during the summers of his childhood, when his parents made certain to give their children access to museums, plays, concerts, and anything else that could be considered cultural and educational.

            “D’you wanna go? Next date, I mean.” The ‘date’ was hesitantly said. “Not now. It’s probably closed. I mean, it’s definitely closed now. Well, all of them are closed, but I was hoping we could pick one and go to it. When they’re open.”

            “The National Museum of the American Indian is good,” Kocoum said, before the babbling could get too annoying. “Have you ever been there?” When Thomas shook his head, he continued. “Would you like to go?” A nod. “Good. I’ll text you with the details closer to the date then.” It was almost amazing how neatly and easily that had been decided. At least something hadn’t been an ordeal tonight.

            “That’s great. Um, I got you something.” Thomas dug into his backpack and brought out a bag of Hershey’s chocolate. The package had pink hearts printed on it. Clearly it had been bought in anticipation of Valentine’s Day.

            “That’s…kind.” More like foolish. Kocoum had already explained that this arrangement was not romantic. A bag of chocolate with silly pink hearts on the package was an unnecessary expense.

            “It’s just, you seem to like chocolate. Or at least you like chocolate ice cream.”

            And just like that, the fight melted out of Kocoum. Nobody ever outside of his mother noticed what kind of ice cream he ate. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

            Thomas was a bit of a pest, but Kocoum had eaten in worse company before. The pest had his good points. Maybe, _maybe_ , this wasn’t the worst idea ever.

            Sunday afternoon he bought a small bouquet of flowers and Monday morning he left them on Nakoma’s desk. She approached him after lunch.

            “I didn’t know you knew the language of flowers.”

            “I don’t,” he admitted. “I googled how to apologize with flowers and double-checked with the florist.” Several flowers would have served his purpose, but white and pink tulips looked pretty.

            “They’re lovely. And you’re forgiven.”

            “Thank you. There is one more thing. You don’t have to agree to it, but I want to offer.”

            “Yes?” Nakoma’s curiosity wasn’t at the same insane levels as Pocahontas’, but that cat needed satisfaction.

            “I have a friend. His name is Namontack. He got shot in Afghanistan.” That was probably not the best way to start the conversation. “He survived, and he recently started a job with the Veteran’s Affairs. Would you consider going out with him?”

            It was a great relief when she smiled and nodded. “Although it does seem a little strange having my former lover set me up on a date.”

            “We were friends before we were lovers. And we’re friends now. Thank you.”

            Nakoma squeezed his hand. “Anytime.” She turned to go, then paused. The moment was heavy with hesitation. “Pocahontas asked after you.”

            “Did she?” If she never wanted to think about him again he wouldn’t have blamed her.

            “Yeah. She said she found some of your stuff in a box. It must’ve gotten mixed up in the move.” The day they vacated the apartment they shared had been a hurried one filled with unkind words and stuff being thrown in a box. “If you want, you can call her and let her know if you want to pick it up. Or she could give it to me and I’ll give it to you.”

            “Why didn’t she call me and tell me herself?” It wasn’t like Pocahontas to use a go-between. One of the reasons he loved (or had loved?) her was for her bravery. He had yet to think of a problem she couldn’t or wouldn’t confront.

            “She thought talking to me might be easier for you.” Nakoma squeezed his hand again and gave him a sad smile for the relationship they never had. “Let me know if you need me to pick up the box for you.”

            “I can do it.” He was man enough to face his ex-girlfriend. At least that was what he told himself when he typed a brief message, deleted it, and called Pocahontas.

            By the time he hung up he had a text message from his father asking if he could spend a few nights in D.C.

           


	10. Chapter 10

            They didn’t get the grant. The e-mail from the probably underpaid government bureaucrat who Thomas irrationally hated as the harbinger of bad news said the selection had been made, and Let It Go had not been among those non-profits to receive any portion of the paltry $851,798 set aside by Congress to fund beds for homeless LGBT kids.

            Fuck.

            No. That was too calm.

            Double fuck.

            “You’re freaking out about this,” Merida said without looking up from her phone. She was languishing on one of the overstuffed chairs that G.M.U. gifted Let It Go. In addition to providing old furniture that was so ugly straight people didn’t want it, and a tiny suite of offices, the university also offered the non-profit administrative support. It was a useful partnership that let the school advertise itself as accepting and modern, gave Let It Go resources it desperately needed, and let Thomas find a job when the job notice was posted on the wall of the LGBT student center.

            “I am not freaking out.”

            “Peasant, please. Your internal freak out is interfering with my groove.” How Kuzco could have a groove when he was on his phone surfing Facebook was a mystery. Almost as big a mystery as how he had convinced G.M.U. to let him back in to finish his degree.

            “You’re on the Board of Directors.” Spots on which could apparently be bought with a suitably large donation. “Shouldn’t you be upset about this?”

            A shrug. “I’m replacing whatever amount we didn’t get. No biggie.”

            “They had $851,798 budgeted. Individual non-profits could apply for up to two hundred thousand of that. Are you seriously telling me you have two hundred grand sittin’ around?”

            Kuzco still didn’t look up from his phone. “I’ve got eight hundred grand _sittin’_ around.”

            Sometimes it was hard to remember just how rich people in Washington D.C. were. And how jerkass they could be.

            “Doesn’t matter anyways,” Merida said, giving Kuzco a glare, probably because she had an accent too. “Mouser’s gonna get the nomination, and the White House is his for the taking. He’s promised to focus on LGBT issues AND part of his plan includes more resources for LGBT homeless. We’re looking at another grant opportunity in a couple of years. A better grant opportunity.”

            “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Both the grant and one of the two major parties nominating a guy who called himself Mickey. Thomas’ politics had been politely called ‘eccentric’ but he still had trouble taking the new senator seriously. Anyways, the House of Representatives controlled the purse strings and homeless LGBT teens didn’t really have access to a powerful lobbyist.

            “I’m telling you, I got the inside scoop.” Merida did always seem to know what was going on inside the Senate, or at least she said she did. But the possibility of more money two years in the future didn’t help them now.

            “I gotta go talk to Ms. Elsa.” Thomas grabbed his backpack and was halfway out of the chair when he ran into Kuzco’s foot.

            “Tonight. Me, you, the ovaries.” He jerked a thumb at Merida who rolled her eyes. “And Club Dread. Wear something…” A waved hand indicated every stitch Thomas had on. “Not that.”

            “Call me crazy, but even if we were old enough to get into a club,” and none of them had reached the age of twenty let alone twenty-one, “A place called ‘Dread’ doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

            “Pfft, ‘not old enough.’ You’ll be with me and I always get in. And Club Dread is safer than your home trailer park.”

            The door to Ms. Elsa’s office was closed, which was a good thing because that gave Thomas the opportunity to work out some excess rage by knocking on it hard enough to hurt his knuckles. When she invited him in he hid them in a fist.

            “Hey, um, Housing and Urban Development sent…”

            She nodded. “I saw the e-mail.”

            Oh. He swallowed. “I’m so…”

            “I contacted the grant officer and asked why we didn’t get the grant. She said she would have feedback ready two weeks from Monday. We’ll get together then and go over what we wrote.” Her words were rehearsed and her smile was plastered on so tightly her face looked like it might crack. There were no answers in her eyes, nothing to say if she was mad they lost the money, relieved they didn’t have to implement the program and deal with the feds, or neutral on the whole thing.

            “Two weeks from Monday,” Thomas replied, feeling like he was drowning.

            Ms. Elsa tilted her head to the side a bit as if he was a puzzle she was trying to piece together. Not knowing what else to do he stared back at her. Finally she said, “You should go out.”

            “Go…out?”

            “To a party. Kuzco’s…thing.” It was safe to say she had no clue what Kuzco’s ‘thing’ would be like. Thomas had the impression that Ms. Elsa didn’t get out much. Work, home, graduate classes, and maaaaaaaaaaybe the grocery store, but that last one was pushing it.

            “Do you want to come with us?” Other than Ariel, who was busy welcoming her husband home now that the U.S.S. Obama was back, Ms. Elsa was the only one at Let It Go old enough to legally drink. There was something strange about asking your boss to leave her lair and come drink with you, but it was the only response he could think of. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or insulted when she very quickly and very firmly said no.

            “So? How did it go?” Merida was polite enough to look up when he came back out to their circle of chairs.

            “It went…” he shrugged. “It went. HUD’s gonna tell us why we suck in a couple of weeks.”

            She reached over and punched him. It was awkward, because she was still sprawled across the chair half a foot away, but it still hurt. Archers were known for their upper body strength.

            “Ow.”

            “So you’re coming out tonight, yes?” Kuzco said. “’Cause I need minions and you’ll probably be fired in two weeks anyway, so might as well live it up.”

            “Kuzco, shut up.” Merida looked at Thomas. “But you are coming out tonight, right?”

            Thomas gave the most non-committal shrug in the history of shrugs. Which they evidently decided to take as confirmation since Kuzco told him they’d pick him up at ten.

            D.C. in March at ten at night was freezing. It wasn’t the fresh nibble of early winter anymore, but the long, serrated chomp of Old Man Winter. Despite the freezing temperatures, when Thomas slid into the back seat of Kuzco’s car, Merida reached back and swiped his hat off.

            “Hey! Paws off the headgear!”

            “Lose the coat too,” Kuzco said. “Kid, we’re going to Dread. You do not bundle up for Dread. What are you wearing underneath that rag?” He tsked when he saw the jeans and t-shirt and motioned for Merida. She rummaged through her backpack and threw him a white tank.

            “See if that fits.”

            “I don’t…”

            “You can’t show up at Dread looking like you just walked out of a trailer park.” Thank God Kuzco was watching the road and not looking at Thomas wince.

            “So how is a hole-ridden, old tank of Merida’s gonna help me fit in?”

            “White shows up under the lights.” Merida looked almost apologetic, like she knew that wasn’t a good enough justification for this humiliation. “It’ll glow.”

            “I’m almost as white as you. We’re going to look radioactive.”

            Kuzco snorted. “Point. But put it on anyway. We’ll rip the jeans and you’ll look almost presentable.”

            At that point it was too late to turn back; the car swerved onto the highway and soon enough the apartment was miles away. By the time it swerved on to another off-ramp and into a seedy strip mall parking lot with rainbow lights flashing in every direction, Thomas was wearing the stupid tank and sweating because Kuzco turned the heat up higher than a pot head after a final exam. But at least he managed to fight off all threats to his jeans. The red denim might’ve faded in the wash since Halloween, but he didn’t have enough clothes to tear up what he did own.

            There were no lines to get into Club Dread, but the bouncer didn’t bother to ask for identification. He just nodded to Kuzco who sauntered by him like he wasn’t even there. Not knowing what else to do, Merida and Thomas followed him.

            Going inside was like being swallowed whole by a sentient monster. The lights were brilliantly bright and the music was less melody and more deep thumping that jumped into your throat and wormed its way to your heart. There was a faint, but noticeable smell of sweat and the mingling of overpriced colognes.

            “Here.” Kuzco shoved a drink in his hand and handed one to Merida. “Drink and quit looking so awkward. You’re…”

            “Throwing off your groove. We get it. What is this?” Thomas sniffed the drink. Probably Kuzco wouldn’t poison them. Probably.

            “Gin.” Kuzco sipped his own drink. After exchanging a hesitant look, the redheads did the same.

            It tasted like Thomas always imagined windshield wiper fluid tasting. He coughed a bit, and didn’t feel bad about it because so did Merida. The stuff was awful.

            Kuzco rolled his eyes and said something about dancing. It was hard to hear over the music, but it must’ve been something about dancing because he finished off his drink and left them to go grind on the dance floor. Obviously uncomfortable standing around looking awkward, Merida thrust her drink into Thomas’ hands and walked onto the dance floor like a storm approaching onto an island.

            The dancing looked like dry, clothed sex with strangers. Thomas left the drinks on a table and went to the bar to yell for a coke.

            “Rum and coke?”

            “Just coke. Please.” The please sounded desperate and the bartender stared at him for half a second before disappearing. The drink was ten minutes in coming and when he sipped it, it definitely had rum in it.

            The bartender said something.

            “What?”

            “Tab? Do you want to start a tab?”

            God, no. He had six crumpled one dollar bills in his pocket and no credit card. On a whim, he pointed to the dance floor. “I’m with Kuzco. He’s got a tab.” After dragging him to this hell hole, making him change his shirt, and trying to poison him with gin, the least Kuzco could do was buy him a drink that didn’t taste like poison.

            A man at the bar stared at him. Older, bald, and with skin the color of an ashtray, he looked like a shark when he opened his mouth to say….something.

            Really, there was no reason for the music to be that loud.

            After too many unsuccessful attempts at communication, the man grabbed Thomas by the wrist and led or dragged him outside to the back patio. It was quieter, and the tiki torches and space heaters kept the cold at bay, but the trade-off was a lot of smoke. There were other people out there, and none of them spared him a second glance.

            “Whew. Talk about a party. I haven’t smelled this many sweaty people in one space since the last anime convention was in town.” The guy lit up a cigarette and held out the box to Thomas.

            “No thank you.”

            “Smart kid. I picked up a cigarette when I was twelve and I haven’t put it out since.” He held out a bony, gray hand. “Name’s Hades Metaxas. Hi, how’re you doin’?”

            Thomas hesitated before taking the hand and introducing himself. Hades gave off a vibe that brought a lot of words to mind. Words like moist, thirsty, and other vocabulary that made you think: ew. The man was like a car salesman, or a lobbyist.

            “Nice, nice.” Teeth should not be that color. “So, you’re new. Kuzco’s discovered a new fetish for redheads then?”

            Oh, gross. It was one thing to joke with friends about the ginger fetish prevalent in fifty percent of the world’s population, it was another thing for some creepy old guy in a club to mention it. “We go to school together.”

            “Hmm. George Mason University?”

            “Yep.” Thomas gave a tight-lipped smile. “You must be a friend of Kuzco’s.”

            “Acquaintances, kiddo, acquaintances.” Hades blew a ring of smoke in the air right above Thomas’ head. “But enough about the groovy one. Tell me about you.”

            Shrug. “Not much to tell…”

            “Ah, c’mon. Tell me, tell me your favorite drink.”

            “Um.” Not gin. “Rum and coke, I guess.”

            “Nice. Classic. So, you’re at G.M.U.. You involved in any clubs or anything?”

            “The Pride Alliance. And I work for a non-profit that’s partnered with the university.” After half a second he added, “That’s how I met Kuzco. He’s on the Board of Directors.”

            “Really. Huh. Didn’t know that.” Hades’ tongue rolled across his bottom lip. He was much too close for comfort. Was there a law that nobody at a club knew about personal space? “You two hang out a lot?”

            “Not really.” And after tonight they never would again. Thomas slipped his phone out of his pocket quickly checked the screen. “Excuse me a second.”

            “No problem, no problem.” Hades pretended to sip his drink while Thomas checked his messages.

            Kuzco: Where r u?

            Thomas: Outside w/ ur stalker. Pls come get me.

            Kuzco: I have a stalker? AHAHAHA!

            Thomas: Srsly, come get me. Dude is creepy.

            “Everything okay?” Hades inspected his nails.

            “Yeah, sorry. I have to get back to my friends now. Nice meeting you.” Without waiting for an answer he turned and ran back into the club. There were more people there now, and he had to push them aside to get to the dance floor. From there he had to circle around until he saw Merida’s hair. He was halfway across the floor when he had to turn sideways to slide between a couple. A brief glance was all it took to confirm that yep, Hades was following him.

            Alright, that was beyond creepy. Thomas kept moving and at the same time dug out his phone to text the first person he could think of. Kocoum didn’t respond immediately, so Thomas shot off another pleading text. By then he’d found Kuzco, who shouted something incomprehensible.

            “What?”

            “I said, is that my stalker?” Ever the rude Yankee, Kuzco pointed at Hades. “’Cause I know that guy. He’s here to throw off my groove by talking about political donations.”

            Hades looked like a used car salesman when he smiled. Without saying a word he pushed Thomas between them and started grinding. After a second, Kuzco joined in. It was like being sandwiched between two incredibly sketchy, human shaped vibrators. It was the least sexy thing in the world and after a few beats he started to itch. Hades was too close and staring at Kuzco, who had never been told to keep his hands to himself. Thin fingers, he wasn’t sure who they belonged to, slithered up Thomas’ sides and hip. He tried to wiggle away, but the dance floor was packed way too close. He didn’t even try to be discreet when he maneuvered his cell phone out to text Kocoum again to please, please, please come get him.

            The beat dropped the crowd loosened a little, with many people stepping away to refill their drinks. Thomas escaped and found Merida at the bar.

            “You okay?” She looked paler than usual, which was a feat.

            “No. The gin. And the Bad Apple. And the Sensational News. And the frozen margarita.”

            All of that sounded awful, especially mixed together. “You want to leave?”

            She looked pained. “Left my wallet at home. No money for a taxi.” She didn’t even bother suggesting he pay for it.

            “I sent a text.” A quick look at his phone said Kocoum was on his way and would be there soon and for the love of all that was holy don’t do anything stupid. “He should be here in a little bit.”

            “He?” She swayed back and forth a little. “He who?” She reached for Thomas’ phone and pouted when he held it out of reach. “I’ve been texting too. I texted Elsa.”

            “That’s not a good idea.”

            More swaying, accompanied by giggling. “I didn’t tell her about this.” Merida waved a hand at the club and almost knocked over someone’s drink. “Didn’t tell her we were drinking. Just told her I loved her.”

            “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s going to know you were drinking.”

            Merida nodded and the movement clearly pained her. “Hi Kuzco. Hi Bald Guy.”

            “What up, Lush.” Kuzco took a seat at the bar close enough to punch Thomas in the arm. “You. This isn’t a stalker.”

            “No?” Thomas leaned away. Hades might not be a stalker, but he was looking rather pissed.

            “Nah, he’s a lobbyist. He used to do business with me padre. He wants to continue that relationship.” The way Kuzco said it made it very plain that relationship was down the toilet and out the drain. “I told him to talk to my secretary. You’ll love her by the way,” he told Hades. “She fits your color scheme. All gray and scary.”

            “Can’t wait,” Hades deadpanned. He narrowed his eyes at Thomas. “Well, Baby-Gay, it was nice to meet you. I sincerely hope you find better friends.” He left then, leaving behind a lingering smell of smoke.

            “ThinkI’mgonnathrowup.” Merida pushed through the crowd and ran out the door.

            Thomas looked at Kuzco. “You staying?”

            A nod and a sip of colorful drink.

            “Cool. I’m gonna find a ride home.”

            Kuzco kept drinking and gave him a thumbs up.

            Outside, away from the press of shaking bodies and the patio’s tiki torches, the wind blew so hard it hurt. Thomas held back Merida’s hair until she collapsed next to the vomit. “No, no, no. Merida, c’mon. Our ride should be here soon.”

            “The ride is here now.” There were few times in Thomas’ life when he had been both happy and terrified to hear someone’s voice. Once when he got in a fight in third grade and spent two hours in the principal’s office before his mom could get off of work, once during the summer between Junior and Senior year when he worked the late night shift at Woodstock’s very isolated gas station and there was always the very real threat that the next person to walk in the door was trying the rob the place, and now, when Kocoum sounded ready to smack somebody.

            “Oh.” Merida cracked an eye and hiccupped. “Sss Kocoum.”

            Kocoum scooped her up in his arms without any sign of strain and started walking. Thomas ran after him.

            “The car key is in my right pocket. Get it out and open the back door.”

            It was awkward fumbling around in Kocoum’s pockets, but at least he was wearing loose sweats. He slide Merida into the backseat and handed her a plastic bag. “Merida? Merida!”

            “Uhhh…”

            “I won’t be able to pull over on the highway. Use this if you need to throw up.” He took the keys from Thomas. “You. Shotgun. I want you where I can see you.”

            That sounded like he wanted Thomas where he could yell at him. Full expecting to have his ears burned, he climbed in the car and braced himself for the onslaught.

            The silence was deafening. At the same time he turned on the heat, Kocoum also switched off the radio. The soothing distraction of NPR was clicked away and replaced with an empty nothing.

            “Um,” Thomas swallowed. “This isn’t the way back to the apartment.”

            “Taking you home would add forty minutes to my drive. I’m not staying out all night. It’s already past one. We’re going back to my place. You can sleep on the couch.” In the back seat, Merida threw up. “She can sleep in the bathtub.”


	11. Chapter 11

            Life hurt when you didn’t get enough sleep. Kocoum made himself a cup of coffee in the feeble hope that it would keep him alert enough to move through the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian without falling asleep on his father. He sipped it slowly, willing the caffeine to course through his body and wake him up. The hot liquid was soothing and if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine feeling awake.

            “There’s someone throwing up in your guest bathroom. At first I thought it was you, but when I went in there it was a girl. Or a giant red hairball. One of the two.” Fully dressed and looking refreshed after a restful and uneventful night, his father pointed to the coffeemaker. “Is there cream?”

            Kocoum drank his coffee black. Adding sugar or cream made it taste like syrup. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

            His father was kind enough to refill his cup. “There’s also someone on your couch.”

            “Yes.” Tempered honesty was probably good here. “They’re friends of friends. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but their ride home from the club disappeared. They needed help and I imagine my name just popped into their heads.” Another blissful sip of coffee. “I consider it a matter of public safety. Either of those two driving would’ve been disastrous.”

            A nod. “It was also kind of you.” Of all the things Jacob Moore was known for, letting emotion cloud his reactions to people was not among them. Not that he was cruel, just that kindness was a secondary thing when it came to dealing with people who were not family. “Of course, if they were drinking and someone thought you had given them the alcohol, you could lose your security clearance.”

            “I didn’t give them alcohol and there is ample evidence to prove that.” Not that evidence would get in the way of his parents’ fears for his livelihood. “But you’re right, and I don’t intend for this to be a regular occurrence.” He took a long sip of coffee. “My plan is for us to go to the museum while they recover and clean whatever needs to be cleaned up. When we come home, I can put the fear of God in them, then take them back to where they belong. They’ll be out of the house before dinner.”

            His father arched an eyebrow. “Do you trust them alone in your house?”

            Good question. Kocoum had intended never to let whatever he had going on with Thomas invade his home. It was a private space, made up of the memories of plans that never happened. Originally, the house had been built with the expectation that Pocahontas would live with him and he would fix up the place while she cared for their children. Now two brats were invading his home and ruining those wishes of what would never happen.

            “I trust them not to steal my stuff or wreck the place. I doubt they’re capable of doing anything right now anyway.”

            His father nodded his head in a way that indicated he didn’t quite agree, but recognized that this was Kocoum’s house and he wouldn’t argue with his decisions.

            After breakfast and quickly throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater, Kocoum quietly padded into his living room. Thomas raised his head and sat up when he noticed he wasn’t alone. His eyes were clear, if sleepy, and he didn’t look hungover.

            “Morning,” Kocoum said.

            “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

            Somehow Kocoum always found himself wanting to smile around Thomas. It was very strange since he had never felt compelled to smile around anyone else, and between their very odd relationship and the circumstances, he shouldn’t have wanted to smile at all. Yet here he was chewing on his cheek and making a conscious effort to frown.

            “Do you feel sick at all?”

            “No.” Thomas shook his head. “I didn’t drink much. Just gagged on some gin and had half of a rum and coke.”

            “I told you not to drink at all.” Kocoum sighed. “There’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen, and some cereal if you want it. When Merida’s done-” he was cut off by the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. “When she’s done emptying her innards, you get to clean the bathroom. Cleaning supplies are in the laundry room down the hall. I cleaned out the car last night.”

            That last sentence inspired a wince. “I’m sorry.”

            “We’ll deal with it later.” That was a phrase Kocoum learned to hate when he was young. In theory, it should lead to hours of worry and pleas to the Almighty for earthly clemency. It was supposed to be a promise of future unpleasantness that struck fear in the heart of the person hearing it. In theory.

            In actuality, Thomas didn’t look worried. He just looked unhappy. If there was a competition of sad puppies, he would win.

            Sighing again, Kocoum reached out and ruffled the messy copper hair which was sticking up in all directions. “When I say that we’ll deal with it later that means you don’t have to worry about it now. Get some coffee. Clean the bathroom. Make sure Merida drinks water. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

            Thomas’ hand caught his before he could get too far. “Are you…are you ending it?”

            It was a way out. An excuse to cut this thing before it grew too unwieldly for them to contain. He could deposit Thomas outside his apartment, drive away, and never think of him again. It would so simple.

            Kocoum shook his head. “You’re not getting off that easily.”

            The National Museum of the American Indian was an interesting place. In addition to the historical research, such as the location of traditional lands, and the relationship between native peoples and the federal government (and Kocoum could never not think: _To hell with Andrew Jackson_ ), there was an exhibit on the Pamunkey Tribe, and an exhibit on the Algonquin Peoples of the Chesapeake. The café sold overpriced food inspired by Peruvian dishes, and the books in the gift shop were written by authors who belonged in the First Nations’ literary and historical hall of fame.

            If there was one thing his parents never skimped on it was books. Every room in their house held books. Every bookcase was stuffed full, and there were books stacked horizontally on the edges of the shelves where there was no more room. Their easy chairs were accessorized with baskets of books on each side. And now his father was going to bring home more. Dutifully, Kocoum shouldered three over-stuffed plastic bags and didn’t look at the total on the receipt his father signed.

            “Anything else?” It was better to ask now and suffer through another walk through around the gift shop, then get out to the car and realize they forgot a book.

            “Our anniversary is coming up.” His father shifted his own bag of books and turned his head to look at the display of jewelry.

            “Ah.” One of the nice things about belonging to the Moore family was that his parents didn’t expect insane levels of recognition for anniversaries, birthdays, or holidays. E-mails were regularly exchanged detailing upcoming family events, and tidbits about books, cooking utensils, or favored sweets (his mother loved cinnamon jellybeans) that would be appreciated if they showed up under the tree or in a birthday gift bag were dropped. Everything was neatly planned and executed. Kocoum knew from past experience that his parents required nothing more than a loving phone call for their anniversary.

            “It’s not a big one,” his father said, not that they made a big deal about the ‘big’ anniversaries. They kissed and took themselves for a rare dinner out every year. “But I figured I could get her a little something. Earrings, maybe?” He pointed to a pair of painted stones.

            Kocoum shrugged. He had honestly never noticed his mother’s jewelry. “Those’re nice.”

            “What about these?”

            “Those’re nice too.”

            His father looked annoyed. “Alright, if you were shopping for a girlfriend, what would you pick out for her?”

            “A gift certificate. That way she could pick out her own jewelry. Or something else she wanted. It’s far more practical than me just guessing.”

            Jacob turned back to the jewelry case. “I realize that your mother and I aren’t the best examples, but it doesn’t hurt to be romantic every now and then.”

            “…Are you trying to give me love advice?”

            “I don’t want you to end up…settling for someone you don’t want. You deserve a good woman who appreciates you. And a little romance will help her appreciate you. While I feel a burn of pride deep in my heart whenever your practical side comes through, it never killed anybody to show a little romance.”

            “Romeo and Juliet.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “They knew each other for three days and showing their love got them killed. Them, and like six other people. Romance killed them.” Damn, but he had never realized what a stupid story that was.

            His father didn’t argue, but paid for the earrings.

            Entering the house was like being hit in the face with a rag wet with cleaning solution. The smell of chemicals was so strong, Kocoum gagged and his father dropped one of the bags to cough. Holding his breath, Kocoum deposited the books on the couch and quickly threw open the window.

            “I think they cleaned the bathroom,” he choked out.

            “I think they drenched your house in bleach,” his father said.

            “Nope!” Thomas appeared in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, looking a little more awake. “Not the entire house anyway. I just dropped a bottle of bleach on the kitchen floor. It’s okay though, I’m wiping it down with water. The smell shouldn’t be so bad in a few minutes.” Sure enough, the knees and cuffs of his jeans were wet.

            “You didn’t have to clean the kitchen.” Kocoum’s eyes were watering. “Just the bathroom would have been fine.”

            Thomas just shrugged. “I also made another pot of coffee.”

            “As long as you made it with water and not bleach. Is Merida up?”

            “She’s outside. The smell made her sick again. Um.” Thomas bit his lip. “I’m not actually sure how to clean vomit out of grass…”

            “Don’t worry about it.” Kocoum felt a headache coming on and he wasn’t sure if it was from the bleach or the teenager. “Can the two of you ride in a car without losing breakfast?”

            “I can. Merida can too, but only if you drive slowly.”

            Driving slowly on a Saturday in D.C. was an exercise in futility. After being cut off three times in ten minutes, Kocoum gritted his teeth and upped the cruise control. Immediately, a whimper came from the backseat.

            “We’re almost to your apartment,” Kocoum said. Four miles, or twenty-seven minutes, and he would be down one redhead.

            Merida rolled down the window and breathed slowly for the rest of the ride. She managed to croak out a thank you when they dropped her off in front of her apartment, then stumbled to the door.

            “How much did she have to drink?” Kocoum asked. He was a little in awe of someone who could get so sick and still force herself to walk.

            “Don’t think it was the amount that got her, so much as the mixture. My dad told me that mixing liquor is a great way to burn the lining off my stomach.”

            The question of what kind of parent tells their teenager not to mix liquor wasn’t a path Kocoum wanted to travel down. He stopped a few blocks from Thomas’ apartment because the last thing he wanted was Pocahontas or John looking out the window and seeing his car. Or worse, seeing Thomas exit his car.

            “What are you doing tomorrow?”

            A shrug. “Probably homework.”

            “Finish it tonight. My father and I will attend Mass tomorrow morning, have breakfast afterwards, and he’ll be on his way home by eleven.” Kocoum’s mind was churning through numbers and estimates of how long it would take for him to drive from his apartment to this section of D.C. on a Sunday morning. “I should be here no later than eleven fifty. Meet me here. Wear clothes you can run in and sneakers.”

            “Sneakers,” Thomas said slowly.

            “We’re going running.”

            “Oh.”

            Kocoum permitted himself a smirk. “I told you that you weren’t getting off easily.”

            By twelve-thirty the next day they were at the Jefferson Memorial. The midday sun was bright, the air was cold, the view was beautiful, and Kocoum was sadistically looking forward to this moment. He touched his toes, letting the sinews and muscles stretch in glorious anticipation of a run.

            Thomas looked apprehensive. His eyes traced the muscles of Kocoum’s legs; then turned to the tidal basin and the sidewalk that surrounded it. “How far are we going to run?”

            “I haven’t decided.” People who interrupted his sleep didn’t get to decide how long their suffering would last. “You want to stretch.”

            “I stretched before you picked me up.”

            “Stretch again. If you pull a hamstring I’m not taking you to the doctor. I’ll just throw you in the basin and be done with it.”

            “I can’t swim,” Thomas muttered, but stretched anyway.

            Except for some lone rangers in t-shirts identifying them as Army (Kocoum nodded at them in solidarity) and a few elderly walkers brave enough to face the cold, they had almost the entire rim of the tidal basin to themselves. When they crossed the inlet bridge, the Potomac was practically glittering in the sunlight. Not that Kocoum noticed it; he was too busy concentrating on his own breath and Thomas’.

            Thomas wasn’t gasping. He wasn’t heaving, or turning a peculiar shade of red. He was running. Kocoum wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he hadn’t expected the kid to keep up with him. When they reached the Vietnam Veterans Memorial he upped his pace. Surprised at the sudden increase in speed, it took Thomas a few seconds to follow.

            As they went faster their breath came harder. When they passed the concrete slabs that formed the National Museum of American History, clouds of breath preceded them. The cold created a burn deep in Kocoum’s throat and chest, but it was a good burn. The kind of burn that let him know he was alive and made him feel like nothing could stop him. Nothing bothered him; the leftover exhaustion from Saturday was gone, the kid beside him could keep up, and he was strong, strong!

            There were more people out now, and they had to dodge around tottering little old ladies out for their daily walks and oblivious tourists snapping pictures. Thomas almost tripped on a group of Japanese tourists who had apparently never seen a runner before. Kocoum barely noticed. He led him across the National Mall, past the Holocaust Museum, and then they were back at the Jefferson Memorial.

            The sweat was pungent and Thomas’ breathing was rapid now, like a gun going off every few seconds. He looked expectantly at Kocoum, blue eyes silently asking a question he was too out of breath to speak.

            Kocoum answered back, “Want to go around again?”

            “Uh-huh.” This was accompanied by an enthusiastic nod.

            Without another word they were off.

            Miles after that, they collapsed on the prickly grass of the National Mall and gasped. Air, sweet, sweet air. Kocoum let it fill his lungs and felt his muscles scream in protest when he sat up to stretch again. “Don’t.” He needed a few more deep breathes. “Don’t forget to stretch again.”

            Thomas nodded and pulled himself up after a few seconds. He looked a little bit like a turtle rocking on its shell, which was adorable.

            “You,” Kocoum said, “can run.”

            “Track team. Colleges like to see well rounded applicants. And it was cheap. I never had to buy a bat, or a ball, or anything. I just had to show up and run.” The smile was thin. “Everybody knows skinny kids can run.”

            “Hn.” Kocoum’s shoulder twinged and he stopped stretching to massage it. “You put a lot of effort into getting into college.”

            A shrug. “It was a way out of a small town. Woodstock’s not a bad place, but I knew when I was twelve that I didn’t want to live there forever. There had to be more to life than a trailer park and Main Street.”

            “For all the effort you put into getting into college you don’t seem to enjoy it very much.” Silence met that observation. “Am I wrong?”

            “Classes are fine. I’ve started on my major and that’s so much better than gen ed classes. And I’ve got a job. And I’m not gonna be buried under a pile of student loans when I graduate.”

            “None of that means you’re happy.”

            “I’ll be happy when I get a job that pays me a ton of money so I can buy a house and never have to worry about the mortgage. Are you happy?”

            “We’re not talking about me,” Kocoum said much too quickly. Thomas arched an eyebrow. “We’re not. But if you must know, my shoulder is aching. Too much pounding on concrete.”

            “Wanna backrub? I mean.” Thomas turned red. “I know we’re in public and there are people…”

            “Nobody’s looking.” As far as the other people sitting around the National Mall were concerned, they might as well be invisible. Nobody, at least nobody worth noting, was going to care if Thomas gave him a backrub. In fact, the number of people in the whole city who gave a damn about what they did could probably be counted on one hand. The nightly news would contain no report on them, history wouldn’t remember them, they were completely unimportant.

            Thoughts like that carried a lot of freedom with them. Kocoum settled on the grass and let Thomas massage his back. The feeling of hands rubbing his muscles loose almost put him to sleep until a sharp gust of wind reminded him that the warmth from their run wouldn’t last forever.

            “Are you going to put my security clearance at risk like that again?” he asked, because he really didn’t want to be out of a job because the teenager he was ‘dating’ wanted to party and get drunk.

            “No.”

            “Good.” That being settled he took Thomas to a coffee shop. As a rule Kocoum hated coffee shops for being overpriced and filled with pretentious hipsters, but he made the exception for the sake of staving off windburn. He made it clear that this counted as their second date of the month and stood resolute in the face of sad puppy-eyes.

            “Do I at least get a kiss?” Thomas asked, once it was clear the puppy-eyes weren’t going to work this time.

            “If you want.” Kocoum ordered two large hot chocolates (only a fool would give Thomas coffee) and made sure they settled in chairs away from the door and the windows. The conversation was unmemorable until Kocoum got a whim.

            Whims were in the same category as coffee shops: annoying and unnecessary. He usually let them pass by with barely a mental acknowledgement. But now that the idea had stuck to his brain he found it hard to shake. After quickly analyzing all possible outcomes and seeing no downside, he decided to act on the whim.

            “My parents are having an anniversary.”

            “Is it one of the big ones?”

            Kocoum shook his head. “But I’d like to get them something all the same. I’m not certain what the best gift would be though.”

            Thomas thought for a second. “Do they have hobbies?”

            “Mom gardens and fundraises for charities. Dad belongs to the Knights of Columbus, and they both like to read.”

            “I guess you could give them gardening tools, or donate to the charities. What’s a Knight of Columbus?”

            “A Catholic men’s organization.” Or: old people supporting Catholic charities while complaining about kids today. “And they’ve got too many gardening tools already.”

            Thomas sipped his hot chocolate. “Well, there’s still donating to the charities in their name. Or you could just go to a store they like and get them a gift certificate. That’s more sensible than guessing what they want and throwing money at it.”

            Both suggestions were excellent and underscored the idea that surrendering to whims was a bad idea. An unforeseen consequence had arisen and it caused Kocoum a great deal of heartburn. Brought on by a very practical pair of suggestions, a good massage, and a pair of puppy-eyes, he maybe, sort-of, kinda found himself falling in love.

            _Damn it._

 

Author’s notes: Poor Kocoum. Bweheeheehee.

Couple of notes for this one. I got some reviews saying it had been a while since I last updated. Sorry! I have a full time job and a bunch of other projects. Sometimes time slips away from me. I’ll try to update more regularly.

The Pamunkey Tribe was granted federal recognition in July of 2015. At the time Jamestown was settled, they belonged to the Powhatan chiefdom, and lived in the Tidewater area of Virginia. It made sense that the National Museum of the American Indian would eventually have an exhibit on them.

When I was in the Army I was told on no uncertain terms that drinking underage would get me booted out and I would lose my security clearance. When I turned 21 my Team Lead e-mailed and told me that buying alcohol for my underage friends would get me booted out and I would lose my security clearance. I imagine that holds true for federal jobs as well.


	12. Chapter 12

               Work had its benefits. In addition to providing Thomas with rent money, a growing LinkedIn network (even though he had yet to muster the nerve to connect with Shang or the rest of Let It Go’s board of directors), it also provided him with a distraction. And after over a month with no word from Kocoum except for terse, one-word responses to his texts, Thomas needed all the distractions he could get. Writing a tiny little grant for school supplies for gay foster kids still stuck in the K-12 system wasn’t much, but it would serve to keep his mind off of the burning question of: _does he still want to hang out with me?_

            “Hey.” Merida toed him with her boot. The D.C. snows had turned to slush and spring was pending. Unwilling to wait any longer for warm weather, gloves and scarves had been piled on and they had taken their laptops and a couple of blankets to the quad. They could see their breath, but it was quiet and it was a refreshing change from inside. Ms. Elsa didn’t care where they were as long as stuff got done, and campus-wide wifi meant they could work anywhere.

            Plus, it went without saying, Kuzco wouldn’t look for them out here.

            “Hey yourself.”

            “Did you see Elsa’s e-mail?”

            He switched tabs and clicked on the newest missive from their boss. Ah, D.C. Who decided it would be a good idea to build the nation’s capital in a swamp Swamps flooded. Immediately after reading it he noticed an e-mail from the University President canceling classes for the remainder of the week and telling everyone to be safe.

            Yup. It was definitely time to go home.

            “I think I’m just gonna…” Merida hesitated. “Leave. From here. Can you give this back to Elsa?” She held out a thumb drive containing her work. A thumb drive he had transferred from Elsa to her.

            “You do realize that y’all are gonna have to see each other again at some point.”

            “No, no. I was thinking I could go the remaining three years of college without ever seeing her.”

            Thomas rolled his eyes and snapped his laptop shut. “And you can’t explain to her that you had too much to drink and didn’t mean to send that text because…?”

            “Because it would be awkward. Will you give it to her or not?”

            “I’m not your messenger boy.”

            “You’re not my friend either.” She always said things she didn’t mean when she was mad. It hurt, but he sucked it up and followed her back to Let it Go’s headquarters. Scowling she pushed past Ariel and stormed into the corner office.

            Ariel arched an eyebrow. “Is she having a bad day?”

            There was a flood warning and she had to talk to her crush. “You could say that.”

            The denizens of the nation’s coasts were over floods. If you lived on the eastern seaboard for any significant length of time there was a very good likelihood you would live through a hurricane. Thomas had noted that the Shenandoah Valley and Hampton Roads tended to get the worst of the weather, but given that the weather app on Merida’s phone was blaring, God had finally noticed D.C. and decided the nation’s politicians needed to re-learn how to build an ark.

            Shit really hit the fan when they found out the subway was closed off.

            “Are you kidding me?” Ariel asked after a cop shouted through a microphone that the subway was closed until further notice. The crowd gathered at the station grumbled, but melted away into the streets of D.C. “How’re we supposed to get home?”

            “We could call a taxi…” Elsa swallowed when she saw the long line of people waiting for a very few taxies. Behind her, the sky rumbled.

            Really, who designed a transportation system that left people stranded after a threat? Cursing Washington D.C.’s city planners and the over-reliance of the American people on the automobile, Thomas considered his options. The apartment was close enough that it would only take him four hours to walk home, but that would mean leaving three women alone in a city. True, all three women could take care of themselves, and there was really nothing he could do if they were attacked by a knife wielding maniac, and in the modern world there was no non-sexist reason for him to think they needed him to hang around, but that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t about to leave three women with no way to get home alone on the street.

            “I know someone who has a car…”

            Merida glared. “ _No._ ”

            Several words that his mother would have been shocked to learn he knew flashed through Thomas’ mind. “Okaaaaaaaaaay. Second suggestion: Merida, you can go home with Ms. Elsa, and I’ll walk Ariel back to her apartment. Nobody is alone on the street, and we can all go home without getting mugged.”

            “That’s a good idea,” Ariel said quickly.

            Merida glared arrows at him. Elsa just cleared her throat and looked nervous. “That’s, ah, that’s an idea,” the blond woman said. “It’s certainly something to think about.”

            “No, no. I think it’s a great idea. Nobody should be walking home alone right now. It’s just not safe.” Ariel nodded. Plainly, the awkward silences, stolen glances, and repeated pleas to act a go-between were getting to her too.

            Ms. Elsa fussed with the hem of her jacket and Merida gave him a glare that promised a slow and painful demise, but a Broadway tune saved them all from a fight. Plucking the cell phone from her pocket, the only blonde turned away to talk to someone she called Anna. Her employees awkwardly tried not to stare at each other while she spoke in hushed tones.

            Yes, yes there was a flood warning. No, there wasn’t any need to panic. It was D.C. Politicians didn’t like their city flooding. In the very unlikely event that nature’s wrath hit, the politicians would make sure there was funding to fix everything. There was no reason for Anna to worry, none whatsoever.

            “There’s nothing to worry about because we’ll make sure she gets home safe,” Ariel yelled. It was just loud enough for the girl at the other end of the phone to hear.

            “Who was that?” the voice on the line squeaked. “Ohmygawd, was that your girlfriend? Did you meet someone? Siiiiiiiiiiiiiis, tellmetellmetellme!”

            “It was one of my employees,” Ms. Elsa said, matching Merida’s glare and turning it on Ariel. “She’s straight. Married. And about to walk off in the opposite direction before I wring her neck.”

            Ariel grinned and Thomas chewed his lip to keep from laughing. She could afford to tick off their boss, but he had a few more years left of rent to pay. “We want Merida to take her home,” she yelled at the phone.

            “And who is this Merida, huh?” Anna yelled back. “Has my sister made friends?”

            “I hate you both,” Merida muttered under her breath, and Thomas almost burst a lung from not laughing. “I’m Merida, and I’m not…”

            “Can you take her home? Pleeeeeeeeeeeease? I don’t wanna worry about my sister. I want to know she’s safe and I’ll feel better if she’s with someone. Please? Pleasepleaseplease?”

            Merida would have had to have a heart of ice to ignore that plea, and she didn’t. “Sure,” she said, still scowling.

            Thomas and Ariel both grinned.

            “What’s going on with them anyway?” she asked, when Ms. Elsa and Merida had gone off in one direction and they in another. “I asked Elsa and she wouldn’t tell me. She just mumbled and looked depressed.”

            Thomas gave her a run-down of last month’s late night booze cruise with Kuzco and Merida’s subsequent drunk text. He left out Kocoum’s part in things.

            “The three of you, oh my God,” was her first response.

            “That pretty much sums it up. I’m currently avoiding Kuzco.”

            “I figured that out.” He could see her breath when she sighed. “I don’t think he means to be a jerk. He’s just sheltered and lonely.”

            “I make it a point not to cry for people who drive Audis.”

            “I can understand that.” She was laughing again. “Speaking of gossip that didn’t come from the office, rumor has it you have a boyfriend.”

            “I...” Thomas felt his face go hot. “What? No. No.”

“Really? ‘Cause Pocahontas said you were going on dates at least twice a month.”

“That’s…we’re dating. Just dating. He’s not my boyfriend.” Thomas was silent for a moment before voicing one of his worst fears. “I’m not even sure if he likes me. Whenever we kiss it’s not really us kissing. I kiss him, but he doesn’t kiss me back. Does that make sense?”

Ariel nodded. “Makes perfect sense. Is he out?”

The million dollar question. Could a straight man be out of the closet? “Not really. It’s awkward.”

“Ah.” She checked the GPS on her phone and a raindrop splashed on the screen. “It’s another hour to my place.”

They walked in silence for a while. Ariel was easy to talk to, and easy to be silent with. Some people made you feel like you had to keep running your mouth to keep their attention and good will, but not her. She let the conversation drop off for a while, and either one of them could pick it up at any time without any pressure or awkwardness.

“If he doesn’t like you,” she said after a few moments of comfortable silence, “you should dump him.”

“What if I like him and he tolerates me?”

“Don’t you want more than ‘tolerates’?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But there’s not a line of guys desperate for a date with a walking disaster.”

“I dunno ‘bout a walking disaster, but nobody’s going to date someone with self-esteem that low. You’re cute. You’re smart. You’re not Pollyanna, but you’re not exactly Sauron either. And you’re a ginger.” She tossed her own impressive mane. “Never underestimate the power of the ginger fetish.” She ruffled his hair the way an older sister might. “Stop being so down on yourself. And for fuck’s sake, tell the guy to man up and kiss you back. If he doesn’t, dump him.”

            Even if he didn’t quite believe it (smart people didn’t beam others over the head with beer bottles, and his mom said he was cute too, but there was cute as in hot, and there was cute as in ‘you look like a puppy’), it was nice to hear. Thomas muttered an embarrassed thank you and they finished the walk in silence.

            “It’s late,” Ariel said, when they finally reached her apartment and she saw the red digital numbers on her kitchen clock. “You wanna stay the night? The couch might have dog hair, but it’s otherwise pretty comfortable.”

            It was late, his feet ached, and the couch looked a lot more comfortable than his inflatable mattress. “God bless you for offering.”

            “I’ll take that as a yes.” She dropped her purse and went to the hallway closet to get linens. Seconds later Thomas was subjected to that horrible moment when you’re in someone else’s home, their phone rings, and they’re not there to answer it. It was made worse by the fact that her dog promptly went insane. Barking loud enough to wake the dead, the sheepdog came thundering from the bedroom into the living room, where he proceeded to jump up and down and slobber all over Thomas’ face.

            “Max!” It was Ariel’s voice, but he couldn’t see her because his entire field of vision was covered in dog tongue. “Max, no! No! Do you want to talk to Daddy? You wanna talk to Daddy?” She fumbled through her purse and answered the phone. “Eric, say hi to the dog before he licks my co-worker to death.”

            “Hi Max! How’s it going, Boy?”

            Max immediately released Thomas from his furry, slobbering imprisonment and bounded over to Ariel with the happiest sounding woof to ever escape from a dog. The man on the phone asked who was a good boy and the dog went absolutely bonkers. Thomas smiled and took the sheets from Ariel so she could both hold the phone and pet Max.

            “He misses you, and he’s glad you called. I’m glad you called you too, but I’m not about bark and slobber all over everyone.” She listened for a moment. “You get CNN on the ship? I was at work when we got the news. They shut down the subways, and we couldn’t get a taxi, but my co-worker walked me home. His name is Thomas. We’re adopting him, by the way.”

            “Hi Dad,” Thomas yelled out. Ariel grinned.

            “It only took how long for us to get home?”

            “An hour forty-five tops.” Walking in D.C. was easy. There were sidewalks and crosswalks and other pedestrians. Walking out in a middle of a field, now that was hard.

            “Less than two hours from work to the apartment,” she said to Eric. “And because I know you’re worried: we were not mugged, assaulted, or otherwise harassed. We are now in the apartment, the door is locked. I have bread and milk in the fridge.” Her accent was more subtle than his own, but there was a lot of Atlanta in that bread and milk. “Thomas is making up the couch for sleeping purposes.” She put her hand over the phone and looked at him. “I think he’s feeling overprotective.”

            “I heard that,” Eric shouted over the phone.

            “Dad, why are you being so overprotective of Mom? I’m gay.” Thomas could hear Eric laughing over the phone. Even though it wasn’t that funny Ariel joined in with giggles, and then Max started barking again. It was a glorious cacophony of a loving family and for a split second Thomas felt a pang of longing for his own.

He swallowed the loneliness. Whatever it took to deserve a loving, happy relationship, Ariel had clearly done it. Her advice might be worth taking. Because he really, really wanted someone to laugh with the way Eric laughed with her. Long after the phone call was over and the dog had calmed down, Thomas stared at the ceiling and fell asleep wondering what it would be like to have a husband (or even a boyfriend) who called because they were worried.

He woke up to dog breath and phone ringing. Grimacing, he sat up and wondered where his inflatable mattress had gone to and when Pocahontas had gotten a dog.

“Thomas?” The one fashion rule he knew was that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, but apparently nobody ever told that to Ariel. Her pajamas were the pinkest pink that ever pinked. Even her cell phone had a little pink fish charm attached to it. It swung back and forth when she held it out to him. “It’s Pocahontas.”

“Hey,” he said, wondering why Pocahontas wouldn’t just call him on his own phone. Oh, right, because it was currently sitting on Ariel’s coffee table where it hadn’t been charging all night.

“Hey.” Pocahontas sounded tired. “Good to know you’re still alive. Your mom added me on facebook and she’s blowing up my chat.”

“What?”

“Apparently she’s been watching the news, which is the usual doom and gloom but now with extra flood warnings, and you won’t answer her calls.”

“What? She hasn’t called.” He reached for his phone, which was sitting on Ariel’s coffee table. Not only was the battery so low it had turned itself off, but his mom had called twenty-three times last night. And he had missed two calls and a text from Kocoum.

Damn.

“I’m on facebook now, and she says she wants you to call her immediately.”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to figure out which conversation he was dreading more.

Pocahontas was silent for a moment. “You’re oddly loveable. People don’t want you to drown.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that little bit of kindness. “Thank you.”

“Well.” She sounded embarrassed. “If you drowned, we’d have to get a new apartment-mate.”

“They might be even weirder than me.”

“Might be. Call your mom, okay? She’s worried.”

Since Thomas’ phone would take forever to charge, Ariel was kind enough to let him use hers to call his mother. Taking a deep breath he dialed the number.

She answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Mom?” He braced himself.

“Thomas Alexander Gates!” He might’ve been a legal adult and several hours away from her and her hairbrush, but he still winced to hear his full name. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Momma, I’m really…”

“Don’t you ‘momma’ me.” Her voice was ragged, like she was trying not to cry. “I was up all night tryin’ to get ahold of you. Do you have any idea how many times I called? I got on facebook and looked up your friends and none of them knew where you were. I was about pack a suitcase and drive up there. God in Heaven, I was _worried_.”

Ah, that familiar pang of guilt that always showed up when his mother cried had arrived. “I’m sorry. They closed school and I walked my co-worker home. When we got here, it was late, she offered me her couch, and I didn’t have my phone charger. The phone was off, and I didn’t hear your calls. I’m sorry Mom.”

She took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “I was frightened. You’re hours away and when the storm warning came on the television, I panicked. Nobody wants to think of their baby drowning.”

“I’m not gonna drown. I promise.” There was a promise he would have no trouble keeping. Now that he thought about it, drowning seemed the worst way to die.

“I know.” She sniffled again. “D’you want to talk to your father?” That wasn’t really a question.

Nononononononono. “Sure.”

His dad didn’t need to use his full name. All Alexander Gates had to do was very quietly order his son to make damn certain to answer the phone next time, find an upcoming weekend to come home and convince his mom he really was fine, and never, ever, ever make Grace Gates cry again.

“Love you Kiddo! See you in a few weeks!”

“Love you too, Dad.” The words stumbled out of Thomas’ mouth. He handed the phone back to Ariel and put his head in his hands. “Overprotective parents.”

“Honey, I could tell you stories.” Ariel nodded at the window, which indeed showed water over the sidewalk. “It’s still raining. You want some coffee?”

“Yes, please.” He ended up staying most of the day with her, drinking coffee, swapping stories about over-protective parents, and avoiding calling Kocoum. It was close to two before the rain stopped, and past five-thirty before the flood waters subsided enough for her to drive him home without accidentally flooding the engine.

“Remember what I said.” Ariel tapped the bill of his hat. “You deserve to be loved as much as anyone else. Got it?”

He nodded. “Got it.”

“You gonna tell that guy you want to be kissed back?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Between the time when he climbed out of the car and the time he got to the apartment entrance, the skies decided to open up again. In seconds, Thomas resembled a drowned cat. Concentrating on not slipping, he ran up to the thirty-third floor where apartment 1607 was waiting to be unlocked.

Pocahontas was in the living room when he came in. He smiled, wondering why she looked like her worst nightmare had just come true, when the door to the bedroom opened and Kocoum stepped out.

 

Author’s note: I know I promised y’all I’d update in a timely manner, but I actually have a good reason for why this is late. My mom fell and busted up her knee. Also there was a flood in my state and I worked in the county emergency management center. The next chapter might take a while too. Mom’s looking at surgery and I’m going on vacation. Sorry!


	13. Chapter 13

            It took a natural disaster for Kocoum to find the time to stop by Pocahontas’ apartment and collect the clothes he had left there. When the weathermen started bleating about the impending nine hundred year storm, and the BIA told everyone to go home and stay home until the federal government deemed it safe for them to return he had expected to spend an evening reading, catching up on the latest political disaster (the talking heads said Mickey Mouser and Pete Bawler would get their respective party’s nominations), and maybe ignore a text from the person who absolutely, positively, did not inspire any feelings beyond irritation.

            Then the rain came down, down, down, and Kocoum thought it would be prudent to make sure the redhead was somewhere safe and dry. So he sent off a quick text.

            No response.

            So he called.

            Still no response.

            So he called again.

            By then he had Thomas’ voicemail memorized and the thunder and lightning were getting worse. Slamming the phone down he turned on the television and tried to focus on something other than the crashing thunder and the Improvised Explosive Devices it reminded him of. One day, he promised himself. One day he would leave Afghanistan for good and be able to smile again.

            It was rain. That’s all it was. Just rain, and Thomas was probably out in it, finding a way to drown. The little pest needed saving from the ~~bombs~~ rain, and Kocoum couldn’t sit here and wait for news of his death. He had to do something. He had to go and…

            His phone rang. It was Nakoma and Namontack, who remembered that he didn’t like bangs and flashes of light. They were much better friends than he deserved.

            “Don’t say that,” Nakoma said.

            “It’s true.”

            “No, it’s not.”

            “Yes, it is.”

            “Excuse you, I am a woman and I am always right. I say you deserve people who care about you and make sure you’re alright.”

            He didn’t quite believe it, but it was nice to hear. It was also nice to hear Chien Po’s voice when his therapist called to make sure he had the date for their next appointment and then spent two hours reminding him it was just rain, just rain. Nothing scary, nothing that could hurt him, just weather. When it came time for Chien Po to hang up, Kocoum called Pocahontas to see if she still had his stuff and then spent two hours not finding out anything about her roommate.

            Then she and John invited him over to the apartment. Against his better judgement he went and spent the night on the world’s most uncomfortable inflatable mattress. He could hear Meeko scratching at the door, but at least he knew he was in America and not overseas. Even when the clattering of rain and the cracks of thunder woke him up, the poster of George Clooney taped to the wall served as a very odd reminder that this was not Afghanistan.

            In the morning he took a few moments to inspect the books stacked in the corner of the room. They were mostly textbooks (and wow, did accounting textbooks look dry and dull), but there were also several history and historical fiction books with very creased spines scattered about. Thomas Alexander Gates liked to read.

            Judging from the worn down pair of shoes in the corner, he also liked footwear he shared a name with.

            Kocoum opened the door and was relieved to see movement in the kitchen.

            “You want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?” The bags under his eyes had to be noticeable if Pocahontas was offering him caffeine.

            “Coffee would be nice, thank you.” He looked around the sparsely furnished apartment. “Is John here?” The squid had put in a momentary appearance the night before, then disappeared.

            “He’s in the Shenandoah doing God-knows-what. Possibly leading college students on an adventure. Possibly helping train Special Forces to survive in a hurricane.” She shrugged. “Thomas obviously isn’t here either. Although.” Her phone beeped and she dashed off a quick text. “His mom friended me on Facebook and has been asking me if he’s back yet every hour. Apparently he’s not answering her calls.”

            Mayday. Mayday. College student overboard. “How did the teenagers of yester-year handle a storm without their parents on speed-dial?”

            She laughed and her cell beeped again. “I’d say that I’m sure he’s fine, but I’m honesty getting a little worried myself. If only because we need him to make rent this month.”

            “That’s a good enough reason.” He pointed to a box sitting on a couch that looked like it might fall to pieces at any moment. “This mine?”

            “Yes. And you might want to look through it and make sure everything is yours. I know for certain the stuff on the bottom is, but the other two aren’t here and I don’t want to accidentally give away their stuff. You and Thomas have surprisingly similar tastes in superhero t-shirts. Some of them might be his, or they might be yours and they just shrunk in the wash.”

            That made sense. “I’ll double check. You find this month’s rent money.” _And let me know if he’s okay._

            At first it seemed like a great plan. Pocahontas called Elsa, spoke to Merida who picked up the phone, who told her to call Ariel, who answered the phone and apparently gave it to Thomas who exchanged a couple of words with her and then hung up. Meanwhile, Kocoum inspected every pair of jeans, socks, and old t-shirt to make sure it all belonged to him. Then he laid the clothing out on her coffee table, folded it neatly, and stacked it to the side. Not only did this preserve his reputation as overly organized, but it stretched out the visit.

            He took the offered second cup of coffee and they spent an hour talking. The conversation wound its way around old memories, mutual friends (Nakoma and Namontack were getting serious), and tentative plans for the future (she was saving money to look for a new job. He was thinking about applying for a new position with the B.I.A.), never touching on anything heavy or important.

            Until the topic of John Smith came up.

            “Does he usually work on the weekends?” Kocoum asked. It was after two and the rain was still coming down.

            “Sometimes. People don’t really go off on outdoor adventures during the work week. And I know he’s gotten a government contract, but he can’t tell me the details.” She shrugged. “It’s the nature of D.C. You need a Top Secret security clearance to have a conversation.”

            “Does he…” Kocoum trailed off, unsure if what he wanted to say could be considered prying or not.

            Pocahontas poked his bicep. “Friends talk to each other.”

            Was that what they were? He looked out the window where the rain was still coming down, and thought about the trip to hell it would have been to spend the night alone in his house. The bright yellow smiley face mug that held the (organic, free trade, and probably overpriced) coffee she gave him reminded him to _have a sunny day_.

            Yes, they were friends. They had been friends before he worked up the nerve to ask her out, and being reasonable adults meant they could be friends when the relationship ended.

            “Does he make you happy?”

            A nod. “He understands me.”

            Which was something Kocoum always found hard to do. Swallowing the remainder of his coffee, he switched the subject. They talked for another three hours until the standing water in the streets had either evaporated or found its way to the drain.

By then Kocoum’s clothes had been folded and refolded and Thomas still hadn’t shown up. It was time to go home. He could drop off the clothes at Goodwill, call the redhead again to make sure he was alright, then make extra certain said redhead knew not to leave him in the lurch ever again.

Because, and Kocoum didn’t like admitting it even to himself, not knowing where Thomas was or whether he was okay was a shot to the heart.

“I’m gonna head out,” he told Pocahontas. “I’ve bothered you enough today.”

“You never bother us. Did you check the shoes?”

“Shoes?”

She looked at the box, then bonked herself on the head. “Duh. I keep you talking for hours and I never mentioned the shoes. There’re a couple of pairs that John says aren’t his, and they’re the wrong size for Thomas.” She picked up the coffee mugs. “I’ll wash these. The shoes are in the bedroom.”

The bedroom door with the busted hinges (really, what good was the squid if he couldn’t fix the hinges?) swung shut behind him, no matter how hard he tried to prop it open. Frustrated, he let it close and began looking through the shoes. None of the shoes were his, and all of them were ugly. At least Thomas’ shoes came in the colors of summer. When Kocoum opened the door, standing in the living room and so wet it looked like his clothes were melting off of him, was Thomas.

Kocoum’s first instinct was to scoop the pest up in a hug and hold him close. Then he remembered that: a. his ex-girlfriend and Thomas’ roommate was standing between them, looking as though her nightmares just entered the waking world and; b. the uncommunicative pest was soaking wet. There would no scooping and no hugging until it was a certainty that he wouldn’t get drenched.

“I see you survived the flood,” he said coolly.

“And you stayed dry.” Thomas’ voice was equally frigid. That was an interesting tone for the man who didn’t pick up his damned phone all night to take. Kocoum felt his eyebrow go almost to his hairline.

Pocahontas cleared her throat. “Thomas, I didn’t invite him over so you could glare at him.”

“So why did you invite him over?” Now that sounded downright acidic.

“She and John invited me over to pick up some stuff.” Kocoum picked up the box. “Not that it’s any of your business. Pocahontas.” He nodded at her. “Thanks for the coffee. Pass my gratitude onto the squid, will you?”

“You could just tell him yourself. He’s on Facebook.”

“One step at a time.” Forgiving Pocahontas and being her friend was easier than talking to the man who stole her from him. “I’ll call you.” He was looking at Pocahontas when he said it, but he was talking to both of them.

He didn’t have time to call. He barely had time to leave the apartment building. By the time he straightened up from tossing the box into the backseat of his car, Thomas’ shoes were slapping in the puddles on the sidewalk.

Ah, the angry puppy look was back. Great. Kocoum sighed. “Do you not own a raincoat?”

“What the hell?”

“Excuse me?”

“What. The. Hell. You can’t get in touch with me so you go back to her?”

Kocoum squared his shoulders. The angry puppy look wasn’t _that_ cute and he was getting wet. “You want to drop the attitude and explain what your problem is?”

“‘Drop the attitude.’ Are you my dad now? You came out of their bedroom. _Her_ bedroom.”

He took the redhead’s jaw in one hand, thumb brushing the light scruff. “Be careful with what you’re implying. She’s my friend.”

Still scowling, Thomas pulled his face away. “Good for you, you made a friend. I’m proud of you. Maybe she’ll let you boss her around.” He turned and stomped down the street, water sloshing up his knees as he walked.

Sighing, Kocoum looked at his car. He was tired, sore from the inflatable mattress, and frustrated. Home was dry. Home had his own bed, and hot tea. He should go home. Now.

He locked the car door and started down the sidewalk, grimacing when the rain soaked his jeans and shoes. Ah, wet socks. When Thomas calmed down and they could talk like normal adults, he was going to wring the redhead’s neck.

“Can we go inside someplace? Your hands must be freezing.” He called out.

“They’re fine.” Thomas didn’t turn around and quickened his pace.

“Really? Mine are cold.” And Kocoum had gloves.

“Then go home. Leave me alone. Go back to her…” Thomas’ voice cracked. It was an opening and Kocoum took it. Longer legs meant he could catch the redhead and pull him into an embrace. Both of them were wet to the bone and he could feel the other man’s body through the too-thin layer of clothes that stuck to him like a second skin.

“Come home with me. You _are_ freezing, and we need to talk,” Kocoum said, as softly as he could while still being firm. It was the tone he’d used on a specialist once when the rage of Afghanistan got to be too much for the man. It had worked then, and it worked now. Thomas nodded.

The car ride home was silent except for the thudding of the rain on the roof of the car. D.C. traffic meant they were stuck on the highway for an extra hour because nobody knew how to drive in the rain. Kocoum spent that time wishing he lived somewhere with reasonable home prices and commutes, while Thomas stared out the window.

When they finally reached Kocoum’s house, he plucked Thomas’ hat off his head, handed him a pile of clothes that would be too big for him, and pointed him towards the shower. Then he toweled himself off, changed, and made tea.

“It’s not sweet tea, is it?” Thomas asked, with the warmth of the shower still sticking to him and Kocoum’s clothes falling off him.

“Too cold for sweet tea.” Kocoum pushed a mug of hot tea across the table and watched as it was sipped from. He sipped his own tea and felt a rush of bliss fill him. Really, if there was one good thing white people brought over when they invaded it was tea. Hot, delicious, soothing tea.

“You didn’t sleep with her, did you?” Thomas asked suddenly. “You’d tell me if you did.”

“I’d have broken up with you if I was going to sleep with her,” Kocoum said. “So to answer your question: No. I didn’t sleep with her. And you’re not going to imply that I did again.” That was non-negotiable.

“You came out of her bedroom.”

A twinge of sympathy poked Kocoum. When Pocahontas broke up with him to date John it hurt, and it hurt when he saw them kissing. How much more would the hurt have been if he had seen her come out of the squid’s bedroom? That heartbreak would have been unbearable. Sighing, and keeping his voice as soft as possible, he explained the events of the entire night, starting with his attempts to call Thomas and ending with the hinges on the door that John needed to fix.

“You didn’t tell me you had PTSD,” Thomas said.

“It’s not something I enjoy talking about. Even with my therapist, I talk more about you than I do my nightmares.” Kocoum watched the red tea swirl around inside the mug. “I prefer talking about things that make me happy. And if you want something happy to think about, think about how I spent the night in your bed.”

That got a short laugh. “How’d you like the inflatable mattress?”

“I understand why you always have circles under your eyes.” Kocoum reached over and brushed the red hair away from Thomas’ face. Much more gently this time, he cupped Thomas’ face and ran his thumb along the jawline with pale-red scruff. When Thomas reached up and took his hand, Kocoum didn’t pull it away.

“I want a kiss,” Thomas said. “One where you kiss me back. And don’t give me that line about not being gay. You called me twice last night, open up about your life, take me to your house, all of that. If you do all that, you can kiss me.”

“Yeah,” Kocoum said. “I can.” And he did.

Their kisses were normally short and superficial. Lips touched and were then quickly pulled away. Not this time. This time Kocoum still kept his tongue to himself, but his teeth scraped Thomas’ lower lip. He gave as much as he took. His sense of time was hijacked. The kiss might’ve lasted a few seconds, or it might’ve lasted days. All he knew was that it was incredible.

Kocoum was not a stupid man and he was not in the habit of lying to himself. He loved the sweet little pest sitting across the table. Right now the love was more platonic than anything, but with a few more kisses like that, and that love could be wild.

“God damn it,” Kocoum said, but he smiled back when Thomas grinned.

 

           


	14. Chapter 14

            After an amazingly mind-altering kiss Thomas figured he had the right to expect things to be different. Not that he and Kocoum would radically change their personalities or anything, nothing that drastic. But maybe they could kiss like that more often? And maybe Kocoum would be a little warmer? Just a little?

            Instead, he wandered the brightly lit halls National Museum of the American Indian alone. The exhibits were breathtaking; all kinds of pottery, jewelry, clothes, dioramas, even weapons were on display. The artifacts were poised behind perfectly clean glass, allowing visitors to idly glance at them before moving on, or stop and stare.

            He would have liked to stare because a lot of the stuff behind the case was art, but he was afraid of fogging up the glass. This place was a little bit like Tiana’s Palace: bright, tasteful, clean. It wasn’t the right kind of place for grimy people with holes in the collars of their shirts and frayed jean hems.

            He would have said it wasn’t the place for white people either, but there were several other visitors who were white. At least, they _looked_ white.

            And it was always ‘they’. A couple, a family. Plural. More than one. His fingers wrapped over the space where Kocoum’s hand should have been. There were few things lonelier than wandering around a museum by yourself. Not only did he miss the conversation, but he missed the sheer size and physical presence of Kocoum. He’d gotten used to having the other man right beside him, always watching, always nearby in case of a speeding car or a sketchy sushi restaurant owner.

            Thomas had gotten used to being protected.

            Right when the numbers on his phone switched to ten forty-five, Kocoum sent a text message stating that his research was done, and he would meet Thomas by the gift shop in five minutes. It wasn’t in the text, but Thomas still figured out that being late was not an option.

            “Find anything interesting?” he asked, once they’d locked eyes and were within appropriate speaking distance. Kocoum wasn’t the type to shout across hallways.

            “Nothing in the museum’s documents. They just told me what I already knew; when the land was given to the tribe, etc.” Kocoum slung an arm around Thomas’ shoulders and pulled him close. He must’ve been in a good mood; he was not the kind of man to fling his emotions out for the world to see. Thomas snuggled into the crook of his arm, which was not easy to do since they were walking. The problem with the proposed highway through tribal lands involved a lot of easements, state law, federal law, and land ownership, and while he understood some of it, the truth was he understood snuggling better.

            Kocoum continued talking. “…One of the docents gave me a name of someone in Governor Ratcliffe’s cabinet. The contact’s low ranking, but if they can get us in touch with someone higher on the pay scale, maybe we can arrange a meeting.”

            Thomas’ head snapped up. “The governor’s behind this?”

            “Ratcliffe, yeah.”

            “He used to be the Congressman for District Six.” It was more than a little shameful, frustrating, and hurtful that he came from a place that would send such a homophobe to Congress. In front of a diorama depicting Hernando de Soto’s first interaction with the people of Florida he gave a brief run-down of Congressman Ratcliffe’s refusal to meet with the Stonewall Jackson High Gay-Straight Alliance and his subsequent vote against a bill outlawing housing discrimination to transgendered individuals, and his questionable civil rights record during his tenure as governor of Virginia. It was surreal to stare at a scene which preceded a God-awful amount of destruction and death and talk about a man who, based on his voting record, wouldn’t bat an eye if such a scene were revisited.

            “That’s…” Kocoum blinked a few times. “That’s certainly interesting.”

            “And by interesting you mean ‘disturbing as fuck’ right?”

            “Any idea what he wants to do after his term as governor ends?” Virginia’s governors got four years and four years only to screw up the state. When their term was up they had to move along and give someone else a chance to repair the damage.

            “He tried running for the Senate a few years ago. Northern Virginia laughed in his face, but Hampton Roads loves him.” The Shenandoah Valley had turned out for Ratcliffe too, but Thomas tried not to think about that. It made him bitter to think about his home supporting someone like that. “He’ll probably try that again.”

            “Hampton Roads is bipolar when it comes to voting. Actually, that’s all of Virginia. Do you remember what his campaign focused on?”

            Thomas shrugged. “I wasn’t old enough to vote when he ran for senator. When he ran for governor he mentioned progress, jobs, development, the usual.” He poked Kocoum in the side. “Don’t you remember? I know you vote.”

            “I was in Afghanistan at the time,” the other man said off-handedly.

            Oh. “I’m sor…”

            “You have nothing to be sorry about.” Kocoum sounded very sure about that, but none of that certainty transferred to Thomas. “Let’s eat.”

            Ted’s Bulletin was a little less intimidating than some other restaurants in D.C. The booths and wood floor wouldn’t have looked _too_ out of place in Woodstock, although management would’ve been laughed out of town with those prices. Still, the food was recognizable and pronounceable.

            “Why aren’t you eating?” Kocoum asked, after dashing off at least three e-mails and a text about what the museum revealed. “If it’s about the cost…”

            “It’s not that.” Thomas could make interesting swirls in the ketchup with a fry and this gave him an excuse not to look the other man in the eye.

            “Then what is it?” Damn, that glare was intimidating. Did the Army train people to scowl like that? Was _Scowling 101: How Not To Take No For An Answer_ taught in boot camp?

            “I’m sorry about what I said at the museum. When I asked if you voted. I didn’t know you were over there during the election, and…”

            “And as I said, you have nothing to be sorry for. I don’t expect you to memorize my life history. The fact that you didn’t realize that I was in Afghanistan during the last election is the least objectionable thing about you.” Kocoum bit into his sandwich and pulled out his phone to answer a text, plainly believing the final word on the matter to have been uttered.

            “So what’s the most objectionable thing?” Thomas asked, a bit miffed about being dismissed.

            The following inhale was audible, and so was the murmured ten count. “Do you really want me to articulate all the reasons you’re wrong for me here?”

            Reasons. Plural. Ouch. A mixture of wounded pride and plain old hurt got caught in Thomas’ throat. “I can probably do that for you.”

            “Thomas…”

            “Number one: age. I’m nineteen. You’re, what? Thirty?”

            “Twenty. Six.” Kocoum’s jaw was set.

            “That’s what I said. Seven years is a big age gap. Second: I’m poor.”

            “That’s a problem for _you_. I don’t care.”

            “If you say so.” Thomas shrugged. “I grew up in a trailer park. There’s broken furniture in the front yard ‘cause my dad’s been fighting with the county trash pick-up for years. We didn’t have a Thanksgiving turkey the year he got laid off. My mom dropped out of college when she was eighteen because she was pregnant.” There was no need to point out who she was pregnant with. Even mentioning it brought up a little wave of guilt; like it was his fault she hadn’t graduated and become a teacher like she wanted. Of all the things he felt guilty about, that was the most irrational. “I can’t remember how many times we’ve had the water turned off because we couldn’t pay, and d’you know why I wear these?” He slipped a shoe off and held it up so Kocoum could see it.

            “Um…” The question must’ve seemed like a non sequitur. “I guess because you like them?” Beat. “They have the same name as you?”

            “For every pair of shoes they sell, the company gives a pair to some kid. You ever wear shoes that were too tight?”

            “No.”

            “It hurts. And shoes from Goodwill are usually pretty old and falling apart.” The fry broke off in the paper ketchup bowl. They were silent for a few moments.

            “And I’m a guy. And you’re still straight.”

            Kocoum snorted. “You sound like you’re trying to convince me to break up with you.”

            “I’m not. Really, I’m not. I’m just preparing myself for the inevitable. It’s pretty obvious that I’m wrong for you.” Being protected didn’t translate into being wanted. One kiss that made his heart beat so fast it felt ready to jump out of his chest didn’t mean he was loved.

            “No. What’s obvious is that you’ve fixated on a perceived mistake and you’re using that as an excuse to make yourself miserable. I can’t claim to have ever been poor. I don’t really know anybody who is poor, other than you. But you can save your breath, because I’m not dumping you over that. You’re right: I don’t know what it’s like to be poor or gay. And you don’t know what it’s like to have brown skin in a country that clutches its purse and crosses the street when it sees a man who isn’t white.”

            More silence. All of Thomas’ fries were snapped in two and cold.

            Kocoum sighed and leaned back against the chair. It was rare for him to slouch. Being so organized, getting up at the exact second your alarm clock started to beep, making sure everything went according to plan must be exhausting. Fatigue made Kocoum look very, very human.

            “I’m sorry,” Thomas said again, largely because he didn’t know what else to say.

            “So am I.” But there was the feeling that they were sorry about very different things. When Kocoum dropped him off at the apartment, Thomas didn’t even have the heart to ask for a kiss.

            He got one anyway, and a hand that briefly rubbed his back.

            “I’m not mad at you,” Kocoum said. “I’m just not sure where you fit in my life.”

            “I’m not sure either.”

            “I’ll talk to my shrink.” Another kiss, and a small, sad smile.

            Pocahontas was watching the news when Thomas entered the apartment. “Mickey Mouser got the nomination,” she said. “Now everybody’s talking about who he’ll pick for a running mate. My money’s on…”

            “Donald Mallard,” they said at the same time. Taking a seat on the couch to watch the talking heads spew their inane and often incoherent opinions on the election was a good way to spend an afternoon. Laughter was good for the soul and Thomas needed some laughs at the moment.

            “So how was the date?” she asked during the commercial break.

            “We went to the Smithsonian. The Natural History one.” Lying was becoming much, much easier.

            “That’s a good one. Did he kiss you?”

            Thomas blushed. “Yeah. And he smiled when he did it. Just a little bit.”

            “Hey, just a little bit isn’t all bad. There were days when I would have cut down a tree for a small smile.” Coming from her, that was a big admission; Pocahontas seemed to regard trees as quasi-sacred things.

            “From Kocoum?” Their relationship wasn’t really his business but…

            “Yeah.” She nodded. “He could sit through a whole run of sitcoms and not laugh once. We could sit down for dinner with friends and he would go the whole evening without smiling once. It got depressing and I started to think something was wrong with me.” The talking heads were back but she didn’t unmute the television. “There wasn’t. He was just in a dark place, and I couldn’t handle that.” She spun the remote around the couch cushion a few times before shaking her head and turning the sound back on.

            Thomas went to bed not long after Mickey Mouser gave his acceptance speech, and as he stared at the poster of George Clooney (a quintessential silver fox if there ever was one) something clicked inside his head.

            Kocoum had smiled at him.

            Multiple times over the past few months.

            Kocoum had smiled.

            At him.

            He dashed on a text to the man in question and stared at the phone until it buzzed with a reply.

_Yes, I smile at you._

            **Why?**

_…Because teenagers and their snake people ways amuse me._

            Thomas rolled his eyes. That was clearly payback for guessing the wrong age. Honestly, like there was that big a difference between thirty and twenty-six.

**Seriously, why?**

            It was a long time before his phone buzzed again.

_Because I like you. Because you make me happy. Because you let me hold you when we walk. Because you follow my lead. Because you let me protect you._

            Thomas was wiping his eyes when the phone buzzed again.

            _Satisfied?_

**Yes.**

 

Author’s note: These two have terrible communication issues.

I published a short story on Amazon. It’s 99 cents and it’s under the pen name Anna Muir. The title is: _The King of the Cats_ , and it’s available on kindle. If you’re looking for something new to read, please consider checking it out!


	15. Chapter 15

            Labels were supposed to be a simplifier. You were X, so you looked like X, spoke like X, and felt X about Y. Labels were supposed to give you a ground on which to base your identity, a building block that set the foundation for more intimate and personal feelings. However, Kocoum’s labels were currently causing more confusion than they were resolving.

            He was Native-American, but ‘Moore’ was a very English last name.

            He was Catholic, but that was a religion brought over by people who tried to wipe his ancestors off the face of the earth.

            He was twenty-six, but he was dating a teenager.

            He was Native-American, but he was dating a Caucasian. 

            He was a former Army officer, a breed known for their leadership skills and unwavering commitment to the mission, but he had trouble figuring out what he wanted.

            He was straight, but he was in a relationship with another man.

            Chien-Po scratched his round head at that last one. “That’s new.”

            “Not really. I mentioned that I was dating someone who was too young and too pale. I just neglected to mention the Y chromosome.” Kocoum sat back on his therapist’s couch and stared at the curtains with the fierce looking dragons made of silk thread. Admitting he was seeing a man was less painful than he had imagined. “I spend more time talking about that relationship than I do talking about nightmares and anger management. What’s one more layer of complication?”

            “There are more possibilities than gay or straight. There’s also bisexual.”

            Kocoum thought about that word, silently applied it to himself and tried it on for size. It didn’t quite work. He shrugged.

            Chien-Po nodded and the office was quiet for a moment. “I have a buddy. We were in the Army together.”

            “Was he Special Forces too?”

            Kocoum had been partly joking, partly asking about Chien-Po’s Military Operative Specialty for too long for his therapist to let it bother him. “We were cooks. But on his off time, he wore dresses.”

            That was not where Kocoum expected the conversation to go. “Ok.”

            “He was built like a compact car, and was the best shot in the company. He had a temper that would flare up with a dropped pin, and I used to calm him down by chanting Buddhist hymns. His name was Yao, and he and I, and this other guy named Ling used to hang out. One day we went out for drinks, and then he sees this new boutique shop. He wandered over there and we followed him. Soon enough all three of us were in brightly colored dresses, admiring ourselves in the mirror and making the shop ladies fall all over themselves. It was a great laugh.”

            Kocoum tried to imagine the deceptively soft and pudgy man on the equally soft and pudgy couch across from him in a dress. “Was make-up involved?”

            “Oh, hell yeah. Mulan’s got photos. Ask to see them one day.”

            “Pass.” Nothing would ever compare to the image in Kocoum’s head.

            “Afterwards, Yao tells us that he’s in to that. That wearing dresses calms him down and gives him something to focus on other than whatever’s rattling around inside his brain. It made him feel, I guess _nice_ is the word.”

            Kocoum nodded. “I don’t think I’m going to find nice in a dress.”

            “Maybe not. But I think you could find nice in a relationship. Making connections with people is important, and everything you’ve told me about this relationship makes it sound like you’re going into eyes wide open. Just because you’re seeing a man doesn’t change any of that. Nice can be found with anybody. Now.” He opened his calendar book. “When do you want to see me next, and do you want to bring him with you?”

            “You want me to go where with you?” Thomas asked the next time they saw each other. Gone were the twice a month dates; they saw each other whenever Kocoum could get away for lunch, or whenever Thomas didn’t have an exam that would cause him to stay inside all weekend staring at an Excel spreadsheet.  

            God. They were _seeing_ each other.

            “To see my therapist. Much of the conversation revolves around you.” That sounded less hurtful in his head. “You provide an outlet for my overprotective instincts and my pathological need to protect people has come up a few times.”

            “Do you want popcorn?”

            “Pardon?” They were at the movies and were at the fork in the lobby where they could go left to the theater, or veer right and attack the refreshments stand instead.

            “Popcorn: that delicious snack of greasy, buttery goodness. You want some? They also have soda.”

            What the hell did this have to do with his therapist? “I don’t drink soda. And you don’t have the money for popcorn.”

            The pause that followed lasted just a second too long. “I’ll go with you to the appointment if you come with L.I.G. to Richmond.”

            “What is Let It Go doing in Richmond?”

            “Ms. Elsa set up a meeting to talk to the some state senators about L.G.B.T rights. Thomas’ hand slipped into Kocoum’s. “I’d feel stronger if you were there.”

            Obligate symbiosis: when two organisms can’t survive without each other. Kocoum decided to add ‘organism’ to his list of ways to classify himself. “We’ll discuss the details later.”

            There were previews, but what really caught Kocoum’s attention was the advertisement telling them to vote for Peter ‘Peg-leg Pete’ Bawler who was running against Michael ‘Mickey’ Mouser. The political ad featured a steamboat and somehow became part of the national conscious. It led to several internet memes, a couple of jokes from late night talk show hosts, and took up most of the car ride from D.C. to Richmond.

            Ariel was the only one with a minivan with enough seats for everyone, so she drove. Elsa popped open her laptop and, after initial greetings, didn’t say anything to anybody. Nobody said a word to Kocoum, or questioned why he was there. He simply said: “Thomas invited me,” and the matter was settled. Merida couldn’t meet his eyes, but that was probably because of the circumstances of their last encounter. If he had puked in someone’s car he probably wouldn’t be eager to talk to them either.

Wearing dark glasses and clothes that smelled like yesterday’s cologne, Kuzco banged on the car door seconds before Ariel started the engine. He collapsed in the back seat without a word, but his snores didn’t stop Merida and Thomas from discussing the worse-case scenarios of the upcoming election. Kocoum sipped his bottle of water and listened.

            “I dunno why we’re even talking about this. It’s not like Pete’s going to be elected.” Merida was quite certain about this.

            “You keep saying that,” Thomas said. “You also said he’d never get the nomination.”

            “It’s not my fault that the South turned out for him. Besides, have some faith in the American public. They didn’t elect Donald Trump and they won’t elect Peg-leg Pete.”

            “What a ringing endorsement. The American public: just barely smart enough not to put Donald Trump in the Oval Office! And for your information, only some parts of the South voted for Peg-leg Pete. Not all of us.”

            “Who the hell is Donald Trump?” Kocoum asked.

            “Crazy political candidate from waaaaaaay back in the day,” Kuzco said from the back seat. “He built a tower he called ‘Trump Tower.’ Honestly, getting to name a building after yourself sounds like a dream. I’m going to build a theme-park and name it Kuzco-topia.” He sat up, leaned over the edge of the seat and tapped Thomas’ nose. “Hate to break it to ya, Tommy-Reb, but if you live in the Southland you should expect to be disappointed in your home state’s politics.”

            That kicked off an unexpectedly heated discussion about the voting tendencies and history of the South, specifically Virginia. Kocoum leaned forward and tapped Elsa on the shoulder. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching.

            “Are we almost there?”

            Ariel snorted. A plague on redheads.

            “We’re still a few hours out.” Elsa’s smile was tight, so very tight and she seemed to curl behind her seat, as if the block of pleather was a shield. “We’ll get there around eleven. Soda?” She held a can out to him at arm’s length.

            “No, thank you. I don’t drink soda.”

            “Virginia can talk about how great Robert E. Lee was all it wants,” Merida said. “He still lost.”

            There was no better way to make a Virginian huffy than to insult General Lee. “Excuse you,” Thomas snapped back. “He got tired of winning and graciously allowed the North to save face.”  

            Kocoum inhaled sharply. It was going to be a long car trip.

            Even when they got to the capitol, he couldn’t escape the Civil War. Usually, Kocoum was able to ignore the monuments glorifying the Confederacy that loomed over his hometown as if waiting for Stonewall Jackson to rise from his grave, ride to Lexington, and lead cadets from Virginia Military Institute on a march against the invading feds. Usually. This time he grimaced as they drove past Monument Avenue.

            It was an institution that fought to keep people with skin of a darker hue enslaved. It was an institution that gave rise to a culture that fought against civil rights and inflicted unspeakable abuses on those segments of the population it deemed undesirable. And it was glorified by the state he called home.

            It was an institution defended by the man he was dating.

            The parking garage was cramped and they had to be careful not to open the minivan’s doors too far to avoid dinging the surrounding cars. It was April, which meant that Richmond was covered in a thick layer of pollen. Coughing and sneezing, they made their way through streets shaded only by buildings thirty floors up, to the bland looking capitol of Virginia at the corner of Ninth and Broad.

            The snub-nosed young woman behind the front desk situated in the middle of the eerily quiet lobby glowered at them. “Can I help you?” she asked, making it plain she didn’t want to help anyone. Her nameplate read: D. Tremaine.

            Elsa smiled and her voice was clear and practiced. “We have an appointment to see…”

            “Names?” the woman asked abruptly.

            “I-I, what?” Thrown off her script, Elsa stumbled to catch herself.

            “What. Are. Your. Names?”

            Kocoum cleared his throat and rattled off the names of each and every person in the Let It Go lobbying group, ending the list with, “And who is your supervisor?”

            “None of your damned business!”

            “Doesn’t matter.” There was a brochure of the building listing every member of the Virginia General Assembly, their offices, and their phone numbers on the countertop. He snapped one up, folded it, and stuck it in his back pocket. “Every public department has a personnel list somewhere on their websites. It won’t be hard to find out who you answer to.”

            “Enjoy the unemployment line, beeyotch!” Kuzco sang out as they made their way to the elevators.

            “That was really great,” Merida said once the elevator doors closed in front of them. Murmurs of agreement filtered through the dingy tin can. Thomas smiled. Kocoum didn’t smile back.

            Virginia’s politicians did not work in esteemed settings. The office carpet was clean, but threadbare. The windows were washed, but the view was nothing pleasant. Many desks were unpolished, and next to degrees from every college in the state were bumps and marks were the wall paint had been scraped. The politicians themselves were a milquetoast lot; jowly and pleasantly dismissive. To their credit they at least pretended to listen to pleas for stronger LGBT legal protections in the workplace, and nobody was noticeably condescending and rude.

            Until the governor showed up.

            They heard him before anybody turned to see him strutting down the hall. His footsteps were heavy, and his coastal accent was thick. The Southeastern Coast’s accent was all but extinct, buried under a naval invasion that brought voices from all over the world to the tiny corner of Virginia. Hearing it brought to mind plantation homes that had somehow survived the suburbanization and squid infestation of the Tidewater. It was old money, and sharp eyed self-segregation. Governor Ratcliffe spoke like he owned Virginia and everyone else was just visiting.

            “And type up a letter to send to dear ol’ Jimmy. He’s been pestering me about the McDonald business. Pardoning the man would be political suicide, but I do want an endor…” the man stopped in his tracks when he finally noticed the scrappy group of teens and twenty-somethings. 

             “Wiggins, who are these people?” There was a slight hesitation before he said the word _people_ , as if he really wanted to say something else.

             “Ah….um….ah…” the skinny little secretary flipped through the stack of paperwork in his arms with the energy of an ADHD afflicted squirrel. “The Let It Go group. From George Mason University.” He looked very pleased with himself for having produced that tidbit of information.

             “And what does Let It Go want?”

             All eyes turned to Elsa. “We’re…”

            “They are a pro-L.G.B.T organization,” Wiggins interrupted, prompting an eyeroll from his boss and stares from everyone else. Oblivious, he continued reading. “They want, and I quote, ‘To end the stigma of being L.G.B.T., to let go of the depression associated with it, and to campaign for L.G.B.T. civil rights at the local, state and federal level.’ Bit of an awkwardly written statement, that. I assume they’re here to support the last leg of their mission.”  He smiled at everyone, completely unaware that the entire office was staring at him like he was a lunatic.

             “How…”

           “Of course coming all this way is a wasted effort. You promised the people of Virginia that you would respect their Christian ideals. And-”

           “Wiggins,” Governor Ratcliffe snapped. “The coffee in the break room at the end of the hall. It’s mine. Fetch it.”

           Wiggins either didn’t know or didn’t care that he was being dismissed. He scampered off with the inane smile stuck to his face.

           The governor sighed and frustration briefly replaced disdain. “And he came so highly recommended.”

           “Excuse me,” Elsa’s smile was shaky. “Governor, we’d like to talk to you about legal protections prohibiting transgender individuals from workplace discrimination…”

            “I’m very sorry.” Like hell he was. “But I’m a very busy man. I simply don’t have the time to talk right now.”

           Oh, hell no. Squaring his shoulders, Kocoum stepped in the man’s way, halting his escape from Let It Go. He looked straight into those beady little eyes and said, “Do you have time to talk to me?”

           “I beg your pardon…”

            “I’m not gay, but I’d like to talk to you about the kick-backs given to yourself and the Virginia Department of Transportation in exchange for permitting a new highway to go through land set aside for American Indians. Unless there’s some reason you won’t talk to me?”

            Ratcliffe was an astute enough politician to grasp the insinuation. “Please, spare me the conspiracy theories and slander. I had no idea your group would be here, and I have the state’s business to attend to.”

            “Is your lackey right?” Kocoum asked, because he was curious now. “Are the ‘Christian values’ that led you to permit the highway the same values that are overriding their rights to a safe workplace, one free from harassment and abuse?” He leaned in just a little too close for anyone’s comfort. “Your values seem less God-serving, and more aligned with glory and gold.”

             Whatever else anyone might say about him, Ratcliffe kept his cool in the face of fire. “I serve all Virginians.”

              “That’s a very political answer. It manages to say nothing so succinctly.”

              What a smile that man had. It reeked of sleaze. “I assure you…”

              “I don’t want your reassurances,” Kocoum said, lowering the temperature in the office by a few degrees. “I want equal footing with a white man. I want my people’s lands protected from development, not turned into an unnecessary stretch of concrete. They,” he gestured to the stiffly quiet members of Let It Go, “want equal footing with straight people. Can we rely on the chief executive of Virginia to support us as we push for civil rights and equal treatment under the law?”

            Graveyards existed that were louder than the room. The question seemed to suck the air right out of everyone’s lungs. Wiggins sprinted back with the requested coffee, but the heavy silence was too much for even him to disrupt. Refusing to be intimidated by the governor’s snide smile and beady little eyes that judged him and found him wanting, Kocoum didn’t flinch. He just narrowed his eyes right back and waited.

            “Wiggins,” Governor Ratcliffe said softly, “have Security escort these…people out.”

            “You can’t throw us out,” Thomas said. “We’re citizens, and we have the right to speak to our representatives. And you can’t just dismiss him like that.”

            “Can’t I?” Ratcliffe sniffed at the redhead. If looking at people as though they were subhuman was a talent, he would win first prize in any reality TV talent show. “You know, perhaps you would have an easier time if you took up a sport. Something manly. Shooting, for example. A man’s not a man unless he knows how to shoot.”

            A state senator sucked in his breath, and Merida, Ariel, and Thomas immediately started protesting. The protests continued until Security slammed the door, leaving them outside on the pavement. Yelling did nothing but earn them the judgmental stares of the homeless bums loitering outside the building. It took some coaxing before Kocoum and Elsa convinced the rest there was nothing more they could do, and to come back to the minivan.

“Fucking rat bastard,” Merida said. Ariel nodded in agreement while Kuzco muttered something under his breath and punched at his phone.

Kocoum looked at Thomas, who had ceased shouting in favor of quietly trailing behind the group, kicking the occasional chunk of concrete separated from the rest of the parking lot. He sided up the redhead and nudged him with his elbow. Holding the obviously hurting (boyfriend? No.) man would have been optimal, but not here. Not in front of others. Not yet.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“The governor of Virginia just questioned my masculinity.” Thomas shrugged. “He wasn’t the first. He probably won’t be the last.”

“But…?”

“It’s just that when I was a kid, I thought there was a cut-off age where people wouldn’t be homophobic jerks anymore. And I guess I was naïve enough to think that elected public officials wouldn’t act like the dirt bags in middle school.”

Kocoum inclined his head in a way that meant: _you have a point_. “I understand completely. For years I’ve been thinking there would be a cut-off date when the South would stop idolizing its Confederate leaders and tear down those damned monuments.”

Thomas’ eyes could not have gotten any wider. Neither of them spoke again.  

It was only when they climbed in Ariel’s minivan, listening to Merida’s imaginative curses and speculations on the governor’s parentage, that Kocoum noticed Elsa’s shoulders were shaking.

            “Enough,” he said, and the hairball was quiet. “Elsa.” He would have normally tapped her shoulder, but he’d concluded she didn’t like being touched. “Elsa?”

            “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. The whole minivan was staring at her which couldn’t be pleasant for someone suffering from anxiety. “I’m sorry, I try not to let things like that bother me, and if they do bother me then I try not to let it show. It’s just that I had a whole list of people I wanted to talk to today, and that man was so nasty, and…” her tears interrupted her words.

            Ariel murmured soothing words, Merida looked ready to punch something, Thomas said something about how Ratcliffe wasn’t worth getting upset about, and Kocoum tried to project an aura of calm protection (which really didn’t feel useful, but there was little else he could do). But all the calming words and soothing stock phrases didn’t do squat. In the end, it was Kuzco who made Elsa feel better.

            “So I uploaded a video to Facebook five minutes ago, and it’s already gone viral.”

            “A video?” Merida said, reaching over to grasp one of Elsa’s hands. The blonde allowed it without flinching. “Seriously?”

            Kuzco grinned and held up his phone so they could watch Kocoum verbally bitch slap the governor of Virginia, and hear all the ugly things from Ratcliffe’s mouth.

            “You were filming that?” Kocoum asked.

            “Filming and uploading. And because the most awesome man in the world attracts the most awesome followers, it’s been shared a few thousand times already. Brace yourselves, kids, the whole world is gonna see you stand up to your governor.”

             

             

           

                         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I avoid Richmond like the plague, so the city's description is a bit lacking. It's doubtful that any governor would be able to throw a lobbyist group out of building, let alone a building filled with state senators, but Ratcliffe's the kinda guy who would do it. 
> 
> Also, how long did it take me to write this? Gyah. Feel free to pelt me with rotten vegetables, I deserve it.


	16. Chapter 16

            Kuzco’s video went viral. With Peter ‘Peg Leg Pete’ Brawler making veiled racist noises at every opportunity, a video of one of his most vocal supporters dismissing a man with dark skin and making snide comments about masculinity to a gay teenager hit the greasy oil spill that was the election like a burning match. The Virginia State Legislature, in an unprecedented show of decency, unanimously refused to support or defend the governor. Endorsements disappeared for both him and Peg Leg Pete. Late night talk show hosts became more vocal in their condemnation. The governor was roasted in effigy on national television; celebrities took turns throwing shade, and they did not hold back. The plans for a highway through tribal lands were put on hold and the talking heads mentioned trials and federal law.

            An autotuned version of Ratcliffe’s ugly mouth noises made the rounds on the internet. Thomas thought that was the second best thing to come out of the whole mess.

            The best thing followed a bunch of terrible things. Kuzco’s video showed the governor, yeah, but it also showed Kocoum and Let It Go. People recognized Elsa on the street. Thomas’ classmates stared at him. Kocoum’s parents called and while Thomas didn’t know what went down, that _had_ to be an awkward conversation. Somebody recognized Merida as the daughter of a Massachusetts senator which led to the best thing that could have happened.

            Senator Elinor MacKenzie, her trademark braids let loose so her hair fell down the front of her dark green pantsuit, stood in front of her microphone and stared at the cluster of reporters snapping her picture and hanging on to her every word. Her pursed lips and hard stare dared any man to challenge her. As if that regal look wasn’t enough, her bear of a husband stood behind her. His bulk, and that wild red hair made him look like he would be more comfortable wielding a broadsword than wearing a suit.

            “There are times for diplomacy, and then there is now. My daughter’s sexuality, her lovers, her life, are her own. She is free to make her own choices, the same as any American. As long as she doesn’t come home with any tattoos, I support her in all her efforts. She is beautiful, intelligent, and brave. If the media must focus on her,” and the disdain in her voice made it clear she would rather the media leave Merida alone, “let it focus on those qualities instead of on things that are her personal business and have no place in the national conversation.

            “Governor Ratcliffe’s words and actions are disgusting. They have shown him to be a man of no moral character. They call to question every endorsement he has given, and they answer the question of what qualities he saw in Mr. Brawler to make him think that man should have access to America’s nuclear codes.

            “The answer is that they are both racist and homophobic. Both men would bring us back to a time when we blindly accepted a hierarchy with straight, white males at the top.

            “It is time for us to refuse to accept such an America. It is time for us to reject such a narrow, bland view of what we could be. That’s why it is critical, _critical_ , that we send Michael Mouser to the White House.”

            For a woman who was known for her gentle, ladylike demeanor, it was speech made from steel. And just as heavy as metal; she was the first from her party to cross the aisle and endorse Mouser. And she wasn’t done yet.

            “In addition to my support for Michael Mouser’s campaign and path to the presidency, my husband and I are pledging a personal gift to Let It Go. We are in talks with the Executive Director, and we hope to announce plans to support a shelter for homeless L.G.B.T. youth soon.”

            John switched off the television and looked at Thomas. “So Merida’s mom is a senator. Did you know?” When Thomas shook his head they both turned to Pocahontas.

            She shrugged. “She mentioned her mom was in politics, but I didn’t push.”

            “I don’t think she wants to talk about it,” Thomas said. In fact, Merida had clamped up after mumbled something about stupid fundraisers, stupid dresses, and stupid rules. Apparently being the daughter of a senator could lead to just as narrow a life as being poor.

            Huh.

            His phone buzzed then, and he left the roommates to talk to Kocoum. It was their first conversation since Richmond and it was short and clipped.

            Therapy session.

            Monday afternoon at 1500. Thomas had to translate the military time to three in the afternoon.

            Address.

            Call if you’re going to be late.

            Everything is fine. See you then.

            The bbzt bbzt bzzt noise let Thomas know Kocoum had hung up. He had the uncomfortable feeling (his not boyfriend. They weren’t really boyfriends yet, and could a straight man be his boyfriend really?) Kocoum was mad at him.

            So he made an effort to be at Chien Po’s office early. An honest effort that involved plotting out a course, leaving class early, running to catch the train, jumping on said train, realizing it was the wrong train, getting off, getting on the right train, and running down the street until he reached the office seven minutes after the session was scheduled to start.

            “Sorry, sorry.” He inhaled and said again, this time without wheezing, “Sorry.”

            “You’re not that late,” Chien Po said. He was the largest man Thomas had ever seen and he had the nicest smile. He was the kind of person who made people feel easy. Which created a tumultuous dichotomy when the redhead looked at Kocoum and felt his blood turn to ice under that withering look.

            “Hi,” he said.

            “Hi.” Kocoum visibly inhaled and exhaled, as if he was trying to calm himself down.

            “Why are you mad at me?”

            “I’m not mad.”

            “You look mad.”

            “I’m not mad.”

            “Annoyed? Frustrated? Angry?”

            “I’m. Not. Any. Of. Those. Things,” Kocoum said through gritted teeth. “At least not yet.”

            Chien Po closed the door of his office and gestured to the couches. The office looked like something Stonewall Jackson High’s anime club would have decorated. “Why don’t we all take a seat? Then we can talk about what you are feeling, and why you feel that way.”

            Being in a therapist’s office made you very self-conscious about your subconscious behavior. Without meaning to, Thomas curled up on the opposite end of the couch from Kocoum. He only noticed it when Chien Po jotted something down on his yellow legal pad, and Kocoum looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

            “Thomas, have you ever been to a therapist?” Chien Po asked.

            “No. Sir.”

            “That’s okay. Well, it goes a lot easier if you’re honest. If you don’t want to say anything, or if you don’t want to answer a question, it’s okay to say so.” Chien Po’s voice was very even. No high-pitched joy, no deep distrust. Just a steady flow of words.

            Thomas nodded.

            “That’s okay. Why don’t you tell us why you think Kocoum is mad at you?”

            Well. That was, uh, that was certainly a question. Thomas couldn’t quite hide his incredulity when he said, “Do you see his face? It’s all scowly.”

            “My face is not…“scowly.””

            “It’s very scowly. Your mouth is turned down and I can see the line between your eyes.”

            “Okay.” Still with the gritted teeth. “I’m scowling. Happy now?”

            “No. You being all scowly does not make me happy.”

            Chien Po intervened. “Maybe instead of discussing facial expressions, we could discuss feelings?”

            Kocoum’s nose wrinkled at that, but after a few tense seconds he said, “I’m…annoyed? No. Wait.”

            Thomas waited. He bit his tongue until he tasted just a thin line of blood, but he told himself to be patient, for the love of God, be patient. Even if waiting was one of the scariest things he did, because in the back of his mind was this horror show that started with a therapy session, and ended with Kocoum breaking up with him. Even if worse and worse scenarios kept popping up in his brain, even if he hated waiting, hated worrying if his not-boyfriend was breaking up with him, he had to give the other man a chance to speak.

            “I’m hurt.”

            Whatever Thomas had been expecting, that wasn’t it. “Why are you hurt? Who hurt you?”

            “Don’t flip out,” Kocoum said, which was never a good way to start a sentence. “But you did.”

            “What?” Thomas inched out of the corner of the couch that he had claimed as his own and turned toward Kocoum. “I hurt you? How did I hurt you?”

            “Well-”

            “What did I do?” Without realizing it, Thomas was halfway across the couch, leaning into Kocoum’s personal space.

            “When we went to Richmond…”

            “Yeah?”

            “You defended the Confederacy.”

            Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Yeah. To Merida.”

            “It doesn’t make any difference who else was in the conversation…”

            “It totally does make a difference. I didn’t say we should enslave people and ditch the union.”

            “No, you just defended the institution that did those things.”

            “Against Merida. She’s from _Boston_.” Which made all the difference in the world.

            “That doesn’t make a damned bit of difference,” Kocoum snapped.

            “Yes, it does,” Thomas snapped back. “She’s a Yankee, and they’re always smug about the Civil War. They like to remember the one time they had the moral high ground and it’s annoying.” Actually, the North always had the moral high ground when it came to civil rights, but there wasn’t any need to point that out.

            “Massachusetts was the first state to legalize gay marriage. They’re not saluting statues of men who fought for the right to keep black people as property. They didn’t shut down their schools rather than suffer desegregation either, and they didn’t go after everyone who wasn’t lily white and Protestant. It’s not that their record is spotless, it’s just that compared to yours, they can be smug if they want.”

            “ _My_ record?”

            “That’s not what I meant…”

            “That’s what you said.”

            “Excuse me,” Chien Po said. “Please don’t yell in my office.”

            Thomas flopped back against the sofa with a huff. “You’re a Virginian too.”

            “And I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m a non-white Virginian. A Virginian who belongs to a demographic the South, and the United States as a whole, has historically screwed over six ways from Sunday. You’ll forgive me if my love for my home state doesn’t extend to love of its Confederate leaders.”

            “I’m not saying you have to love the Confederacy,” Thomas mumbled. He had the feeling that there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t come across as racist at worst and insensitive at best. What a shitty way to feel.

            “I’d rather you not love it either. You’re better than that.”

            For the love of… “Haven’t you ever loved anything that wasn’t perfect? Anything that wasn’t politically correct? Something flawed, maybe really fucked up? But you loved it anyway because it was yours and you wanted it to be better than what it was?”

            “Calling the Confederacy politically incorrect is like calling the ocean damp!”

            “I’m not talking about the damned ocean, I’m talking about Virginia! I’m talking about my home!”

            “Stop yelling,” Chien Po said, more forcefully this time.

            Kocoum’s gaze was long and thoughtful. Several times it looked like he wanted to say something but held himself back. Eventually he said, “I refuse to love something that isn’t worth my time.”

            That was so typical. “You don’t love anything that’s not worth loving. You don’t date anyone who isn’t perfect, and you never consider the unbridled horror that, oh no, you might not be perfect yourself.” 

            “Just because you idolize a racist legacy doesn’t mean I have a narcissistic personality.”

            “Cool,” Thomas said, even though it wasn’t cool and nothing would ever be cool again and it took so much adulting not to chuck the Buddha statue that looked an awful lot like Chien Po out the window. “Well, I’m done.” He grabbed his backpack and headed for the door.

            “You’re leaving? You’re seriously running away? My God, could you be any more of a child?” Kocoum sounded like every adult who ever made a completely unreasonable decision, was then shocked that you didn’t agree with it, and topped it off by being condescending. It was doubly annoying because Thomas was more than old enough to vote and was trying really hard to be an adult.

            “Fine, I’m acting like a child. Call me when you decide if a racist child is worth loving. Or don’t.”

            Blissfully simplistic rage melted into a mixture of rage and hurt by the time he returned to the empty apartment. Eventually the anger dissolved until all he felt was hurt and depression. And self-doubt. Lots and lots of self-doubt.

Nobody likes to consider the possibility that they might be racist. The most honest euphemism he had ever heard for a racist referred to one the neighbors who had what Thomas’ mother called “an ugly soul.”

He didn’t want an ugly soul. Or an ugly life. Or a lonely one either. He wanted Kocoum, who probably never wanted to see him again. The fear that all he had to look forward to was ugliness and loneliness was probably the reason he broke down sobbing on the couch. Having an empty apartment to sob and yell as much as he wanted with only Meeko as his witness was a luxury. Crying without anyone seeing the accompanying snot and tears and self-loathing was cathartic. Thomas couldn’t remember the last time he cried like this.

Then Pocahontas came home. She stood in the doorway of the apartment. They stared at each other for a few seconds. He was terrified she would ask, and terrified she wouldn’t.

            Without a word she sat on the couch and wrapped in the most comforting hug he had ever felt from anybody who wasn’t a blood relation.

            The thing about Pocahontas was that she was genuinely nice. She took care of people who needed taking care of. She ordered pizza, listened to Thomas explain what happened, and didn’t ask for any names. Or judge. She just let him finish crying before saying:

            “I don’t think you’re racist. At least not intentionally.”

            “Does it really matter if it’s intentional or not?”

            “Does it matter if someone is intentionally homophobic, or if they just haven’t been around gay people very much and don’t understand your history?” She shrugged, which was awkward because they were still platonic-cuddling on the couch. “We’ve got a presidential candidate saying things like ‘those people’ every few speeches. I’d rather be around you than any of the people at his rallies who cheer when he says that. You, I can educate.”

            Very good points all. Thomas nodded. Asking someone to point out how he was wrong, when he had already been (not attacked. Kocoum hadn’t meant it as an attack) told he was wrong once already that day was really hard. “Can you help me?”

            He heard and felt her sharp intake of breath. “I can try.”

            Another thing about Pocahontas was that she was very, very good at communicating the various problems the Native American community faced. Even when confronted with incredulity.

            “Are you serious? People actually call y’all ‘redskins’ and ‘savages’?”

            Pocahontas nodded and took another bite of cold pizza. Platonic-cuddling had been abandoned in favor of food. “More often than you would think.”

            “That’s…” The English failed at providing a word that adequately explained that fuckery. “That’s sick.”

            She nodded again and swallowed her pizza. “A good summary of race relations is: people keep sucking.” Her voice became more serious. “Going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing that’s a good summary for sexual orientation relations. And religious relations. National origin relations. And probably a whole host of other things. The point is: you think the Confederacy is a dead institution relegated to historical reenactments, museums, and books. To us, it might not be. We _hope_ it’s a dead institution. But there are a lot of people who would be okay seeing me and Tiana as second class citizens. That’s why those statues in Richmond are scary, and why your boyfriend doesn’t want to hear you defending Lee, even if you’re just messing with Merida.”

            Everything about history that Thomas had been taught was well in the past and couldn’t hurt anybody anymore, was front and center in the present and was very, very painful. “What happens now?”

            Another bite, another shrug. “Helping a white guy appreciate my point of view has always been on my bucket list. I never got beyond that point. Guess whatever happens now is up to you. Although-” she cut herself off with another bite and he waited for her to chew. “If you decide to call this guy, I would wait a day or two. Give both of you a chance to calm down.”

            She really was a very nice person. Thomas told her that, and was pleased to see her smile.

            “I’m serious. A lot of people would have just told me to go to hell.”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t like hurting people.”

            “Which is what makes you a good person.” He gave her a hug before going to his room to do homework and not call Kocoum for a couple of days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, this chapter. This chapter was hard to write. I'm a straight, white chick, so there's a very good chance I've mucked this up.
> 
> You guys are a really sweet readership. Far better than I deserve. Thanks for sticking with me.


	17. Chapter 17

The television screen above the bar in Tiana’s Palace held the attention of every lush in the place. Kocoum wasn’t much of a drinker, but the trendy jazz and reasonably priced drinks offered a distraction from the world outside. Well, until the bartender turned the channel to the debate.

“You don’t think he actually stands a chance of reaching the Oval Office?” Kocoum said aloud to the man sitting next to him.

“Pete Brawler? I didn’t think he stood a chance of getting the nomination, not after he mocked the disabled.” And given the prominent curve of the man’s shoulders and the lump above one eye, that mockery had been taken personally. “But here we are.”

Kocoum looked at his rum and coke and cursed. “People suck.”

“Yep.”

On screen, Michael Mouser gave a thoughtful, intelligent answer to a question about foreign policy.

“The question is,” the man leaned forward and tilted his drink towards the television. “Do we have enough reason to hope that the American people will elect the least sucky option?”

Brawler dismissed a question regarding his civil rights record by stating nobody had worked as hard to improve race relations as himself. The debate audience laughed.

“Yep,” Kocoum said, largely because he wanted to believe it was true. He wanted to have faith in the American people, wanted to believe that his country was as good as the patriotic songs said it was. Once he had sworn an oath to protect and defend the United States, and he meant every word of it. America had to be better than Pete Brawler. She had to be worth the nightmares and rage.

“I agree.” The man finished his drink and held out his hand. “Quasimodo.”

Kocoum introduced himself before the name rang a bell. “You’re the artist.”

Quasimodo grinned. “You know you’ve made it when you’re recognized at the bar.”  
“One of my co-workers is into art and she had a brochure of your work on her desk at the office.” He’d seen it when he and Tiger Lily were discussing the Senate investigation into the now permanently canceled highway.

(Amazing what a little bad public relations could do. With all the protesting going on, the Virginia Department of Transportation couldn’t keep planning to run all that pavement through tribal lands. Not when people were gathered on those tribal lands, and said they intended to stand in the way of every bulldozer and truck that rolled through.)

Quasimodo’s smile got even brighter. The man might not have been a model, but he could certainly light up a room. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Oh man, and to think I didn’t want to go out tonight.”

“Why didn’t you want to go out?” That was a rather personal question, but the rum and coke was hitting him hard.

Broad arms swept wide, allowing Kocoum a better view of the shape of Quasimodo’s body. “Women don’t exactly flock to me.”

Seeing another’s physical flaws and disabilities was awkward. The rum and coke became more interesting. “So why did you come out?”

“The same reason I agree with you that America is better than her worst politicians: I’m an optimist. Even if I don’t find true love tonight, I still learned somebody likes my art. I still interacted with somebody. For an introvert, that’s a big deal. Being disappointed is a risk, yeah. But staying locked away from the rest of the world is a bigger risk.”

Kocoum looked from his drink to Quasimodo. “I’m not sure how much disappointment a human being can take.”

“Humans are a little stronger than we think we are.” On the screen, the debate audience clapped as the two candidates shook hands. “A little kinder too.”

“I hope you’re right.” The last of the drink burned going down.

“Here.” Four tickets appeared on the bar. “Two for you, two for your co-worker. I’ve got an exhibit opening next Friday. You should come.”

Disappointment didn’t make way for hope when a phone call came from his…from the guy he was dating. It didn’t make way when they made plans to meet at the exhibit, or when the day for the meeting rolled around. But hope did make an appearance when Kocoum arrived at the museum and Thomas was already there. Standing outside the building in the cool May evening. Holding white flowers.

“Ummm…?”

“They’re called Stars of Bethlehem,” Thomas said. “Pocahontas said they apologize in flower language.”

Leave it to her to know the language of flowers. “You told her about us?”

“I told her I fucked up with my non-white date. She explained a few things.”

“Bet that was fun.” The flowers smelled nice. Nobody had ever given Kocoum flowers before. He wasn’t used to being romanced and the gesture left him feeling blindsided.

Thomas was talking. It was soft, and it was Southern, and Kocoum realized just how much he had missed the redhead fluff ball.

The question of whether he missed him enough to ignore the defense of Robert E. Lee was still unanswered.

“She, um, she was gentle. And good at explaining stuff. And I’m sorry. For being insensitive, and racist, and…”

Wrong question. Did he miss him enough to accept the fact that he was flawed?

“And, um, I’m really sorry. You’re a good person and you don’t deserve to have the South’s screw-ups downs-sized and rubbed in your face. And I’m hoping you can forgive me.”

Yes. The answer was yes.

The talking stopped when Kocoum leaned forward and kissed him. Their foreheads touched and for a few too-brief moments, quiet surrounded them.

“I am not gentle. I am not good at explaining things, and I never learned how to handle flaws,” Kocoum said.

“I don’t think I’m anything but flawed,” Thomas said, but they kissed again anyway.

“You’re a work in progress,” Kocoum murmured, slowly realizing that he was too much in love to let demographics stand in their way. “And so am I. I’ll live with your flaws if you suffer mine. And we’ll get better. One day, I won’t be angry and you won’t be frightened, and we’ll be fine.”

That must have sounded like a fair bargain because there was a third kiss, this one accompanied by a nibble on Kocoum’s bottom lip.

Since coming back from Afghanistan, he had an idea of what it would take to make himself happy. At first he had thought it would take Pocahontas in a white dress. After that failure he hadn’t seen a path to anything that resembled happiness, or even normality. Now, there was another option. Another chance, and all he needed was the courage to talk to the person he loved enough to forgive.

There was only so much disappointment a human could take, but he had suffered enough loneliness to take the risk.

Three words were spoken, softly at first, then repeated in a much stronger voice. In any language those words, and what they meant, were beautiful. More beautiful than flowers, more beautiful than stars peeking out from behind spotty clouds. They were beautiful because they gave Kocoum the right to wrap his arms around Thomas’s waist, lift him off his feet, and swing him around until they were both dizzy and laughing.

They were stronger and kinder than their worst days. He knew that. Just like he knew that any difficulties that came from their skin, religion, or the cats in their heads, could be stared down into submission.

When they finally made it into the art exhibition, Quasimodo waved them over. Taking the redhead’s hand, Kocoum introduced them.

“Thomas, this is Quasimodo Hugo. He’s the artist. Quasimodo, this is my boyfriend Thomas Gates.”

He didn’t have to look to know Thomas was deliriously happy about that moniker. He heard it when there was a little squeak from his right, followed by a shy, breathless, “Hi.”

The exhibition was great. Cheese and crackers, interesting art, delightful conversation. They got out of there as soon as it was socially forgivable to do so, and drove to Kocoum’s house.

It was warm and dark. He wasn’t the type to waste money on air conditioning. If his ancestors could handle Virginia in the summertime without central air, he could as well.

Then his boyfriend took off his shirt.

Oh. Right. That.

Thomas looked a little crest-fallen. Not in the manipulative puppy-eyed way, but honestly hurt. “Do you not want to?”

Kocoum braced himself. “I do. Just not tonight.”

“Not tonight?”

“I, um, you…” He was usually more articulate than this. “I’m not prepared, and I want time to research what I want. To do. With you.”

Demographics would not keep them apart, but Catholicism would probably always make him stutter when faced with the topic of sex.

“Research,” Thomas said, repeating the word like it was a source of great amusement. “The internet can help you there. Try Tumblr.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Right.” A nod. “So what are we going to do tonight?”

Drawing the younger man closer, Kocoum muttered something about how he could keep his shirt off. Then he kissed him, biting down on Thomas’ bottom lip.

Thomas responded by jumping up and wrapping his legs around Kocoum’s waist.

There were plenty of things they could do without the internet.


	18. Chapter 18

Ah, the glorious first day of the Fall semester. A day of schedules, of syllabi, of regretting majoring in accounting, and of learning that Let It Go had decided to put Kuzco in charge of managing the ‘be safe during sexy-times’ stuff. 

Thomas tried to massage away the headache. He didn’t succeed. “First of all, the campus clinic calls them sexual and reproductive health products…”

“That’s not as much fun to say,” Kuzco said. He had his feet propped up on the receptionist desk in the GMU LGBT center. 

“…Second of all, is this really something a board member should be doing?” 

“We majestic kings and queens of the board do as we will. Peasants go along with our wishes, or they get no condoms for sexy-times.” The feet dropped to the floor and Kuzco leaned across the desk. “Are you having sexy-times? My first read is ‘virgin’ but I feel that’s just your natural awkwardness throwing out mixed signals.”

“Third,” Thomas said, trying not to grit his teeth because he didn’t having dental insurance. “If a member of the board is going to do it, who decided that should be you?” 

“See, if you had sex, you would be less cranky.” Kuzco returned his usual sprawl. “And I get to hand out the be-safe-for-sexy-times stuff because I’m the one who made a donation so L.I.G can buy the good products.” He raised his voice so the entire center could hear. “Your benevolent gay emperor has bestowed upon you the expensive condoms. No more generic crap, oh no. Pre-lubed condoms are available for your sexy-times pleasure. Red, you and Not-A-Mystery Boyfriend want one? I’d ask if you wanted more, buuuuuuut—”

“I hate you. And no.” 

A long, exaggerated sigh escaped Kuzco’s lips. “Throwing off my groove, Red, you’re throwing off my groove. Oh well. Come find me when you and Kocoum want to get it on.” 

Thomas felt his heart stop. “You…”

“There’s no point in denying it. Despite your cultural ties to a dead empire built on the subjugation of brown people, and your disturbing habit of clocking him over the head with beer bottles, it was pretty obvious he came to Richmond for you. And that was after I saw him lugging a drunk Merida to his car with you trailing behind him.” 

A part, a very large part, of Thomas wanted to yell out to all and sundry that he was dating Awesome McCool Boyfriend. That Kocoum had decided he was worth sticking around for. That when they kissed it sent jolts of electricity through every atom every time. That he was deliriously happy when he got wrapped into a hug, even when when D.C. August humidity meant that twenty seconds of skin-on-skin contact made them both sticky and gross with sweat. 

He didn’t though, because Kocoum was the one coming out. Coming out as bi, or gay, or ‘Thomas-sexual’, neither of them was sure. But Thomas was sure that he had to leave the announcements of their relationship to Kocoum. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone,” he said slowly. 

“Pffffsh, Peasant, please. I tell whatever I like to whoever I like.” 

“No.” Thomas waited until Kuzco looked him in the eye. “You’re not going to tell anybody, because that would tell them that Kocoum isn’t straight. And if you started outing people, the rest of the board would vote you off. And then you won’t have a reason to hang out here anymore.” 

Kuzco looked hurt. There was no venom in his words. “You red-haired bitch.” 

“I’ve been called worse. You can call me whatever you want. But if you start outing people, you’ll be as welcome around here as an overflowing outhouse.” That said, Thomas shouldered his book bag and left the center. 

He was halfway across the quad when his cell phone rang. Elsa. 

“What did you do to Kuzco?” 

“I didn’t do anything to him.” He gave a brief explanation of what went down. “I explained to him that if he outs my boyfriend then I will tell the rest of the board. It’s a non-profit dedicated to serving vulnerable LGBT youth. It’s not okay for a board member to go around outing people.” 

There was a long pause and at the end of it she said, “you’re right.” 

Someone on the quad played Mouser’s new campaign tune on their phone. Hearkening back to Eisenhower’s ‘I Like Ike’ ditty, it had quickly gone viral. There was an electronic remix that left off the R on his last name. Michael Mouser’s official nickname was now Mickey Mouse. 

M-I-C

“I am?” 

She snorted a small laugh. “Yeah. You’re completely right.” 

K-E-Y

“Oh.” 

“Listen, I’ll talk to him. He’s not evil. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s not evil.” 

At several points the same might’ve been said about Thomas. 

Elsa continued, “if I get him to apologize and promise to leave you alone, will you be okay with that?” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “That’d be fine.” They hung up and he continued on towards the apartment. 

M-O-U-S-E

Voices came from within the apartment. Voices that came to a halt when Thomas walked in. John was standing in the living area beside two stout, burly men in suits. All three turned to stare at him. 

“Who is this?” The dark-haired man glared. 

“Apartment-mate,” John said. “Thomas, these two fine gents are Lon and Ben. I applied for a contract with the federal government and this is the background check.” 

“A background check?” Thomas repeated. “Those don’t usually require visits to your house.” 

“This one did. And they want to speak to various acquaintances. My parents, girlfriend, apartment-mate.” 

Thomas looked from his one-time crush to the suits. “What the hell kind of contract is this?” 

Lon, or Ben, it was a little unclear, said, “External Representative.” 

“What’s that?” 

Ben, or maybe it was Lon, said, “Our boss hasn’t yet written up the position description. Mr. Bubbles is usually on top of these things so I’m sure it will be available soon.” 

“Your boss is named Mr. Bubbles?” That did not sound like the name of a federal spook. 

“Yes.” 

“Thomas,” John said, “wanna do me a favor and tell the nice men that I can be trusted?” 

“Sure.” 

Lon-Ben, or Ben-Lon, ‘suggested’ that John leave them. What followed was a two hour interrogation about John Smith’s habits, beliefs, and all-around American-ness. It included questions related to food…

“Has he ever eaten food that is non-American?” 

“Uh, the three of us once had enough money for Chinese take-out. Does that count?” 

…Spending habits…

“When I said we once had enough money for take-out, I meant we once had enough money for take-out. Seriously, nobody in this apartment has spending habits. That would mean one of us had enough money to spend on something.” 

…And beliefs, spiritual, political, and otherwise. 

“Y’know, I don’t think we ever talked about aliens. He said once that vampires would win against werewolves, and he incorrectly believes Aquaman to be a good superhero, but the topic of aliens has never come up. Why does the federal government care if it’s contractors believe in aliens?” 

Lon-Ben, or Ben-Lon, closed the folder where he’d been taking notes. “ That’s enough questions for today.” 

The federal government, Thomas decided, was a truly awkward and bizarre institution. 

The interrogation was not mentioned later that evening. Nothing was mentioned that evening, because Pocahontas and John holed themselves up in their room and argued. Paper-thin walls did nothing to shield Thomas from either their argument, or their half-hearted make-up sex. 

Dear God, did they realize how loud they were? Even memorizing the basic principles of ethics in accounting did nothing to mask those noises. 

He didn’t sleep much that night and judging from her mussed up hair and crusty eyes, neither did Pocahontas. They met as they always did in the mornings: at the kitchen counter over bowls of cornflakes and mugs of hyper-strong coffee. 

“Good night?” he asked, because it would have been rude to acknowledge that she had faked a lot last night. 

“It had its moments.” She used her favorite coffee mug, the one decorated with hummingbirds, which meant she wasn’t feeling great. People who felt like crap needed cool coffee mugs. “Guess you heard us. Sex is great, but its not a cure-all for every relationship ill.” 

“It’s never been that way for me.” 

She looked over the rim of her mug. “So, not to pry, buuuuuuut have you and Mystery Boyfriend….?”

Swallowing a cornflake whole hurt. “No.” Thomas coughed and hacked that lone cornflake down. “Eh, no. We’re taking it slow.” 

“Hey, nothing wrong with that. I don’t judge. Not if you’re having sex daily. Not if you’ve never had sex.” 

Sometimes the hyper-acceptance of all lifestyles was just too damned much to bear. Also, they really needed to be drunk for this conversation. “I didn’t come to college a virgin.” 

She clinked her mug against his cereal bowl. “Like I said, judgement-free zone.” 

But they didn’t have to be drunk for the conversation he really wanted to have. “Not to pry, but I’m guessing you didn’t either.”

She shook her head. 

“So.” Thomas leaned forward. “Tips and tricks?” 

“Ahhh.” She grinned. “Depending on what Mystery Boyfriend likes you could try tickling behind his knees. Or you could drag your nails up and down his ribs. Don’t scratch, just lightly drag. And day-old facial scruff against the back of the neck should be enough to drive anyone to distraction.” 

“Facial scruff is the key to seduction.” The tickling thing was a possibility too. 

Saturday night provided ample opportunity to test that possibility. Kocoum’s homemade chicken tikka masala followed by a viewing of ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ (the only good movie Netflix had streaming that month) led to piling the couch and drifting in and out food comas. Leaning against his boyfriend gave Thomas the perfect vantage point to let one hand slide down behind Kocoum’s knee. 

Roughly half a second after the tickling started, Kocum yelped and jumped. The sudden movement sent Thomas sprawling off his lap and onto the floor. He barely avoided hitting his head against the coffee table. He did not avoid skinning his knees and palms against the hardwood floors. 

Kocoum calmed down quickly, because of course he did. And of course he started examining Thomas’ hands for bruises and sprains within seconds. The role of protector was in his DNA; he couldn’t not make sure his partner wasn’t safe and healthy. 

Which was normally fine, but Thomas didn’t want the role of protected just then. He wanted the role of seducer. Or at least initiator of another heavy make out session.

“How.” Kocoum’s voice was steady. “Did you know the backs of my knees are ticklish?” 

Thomas shrugged. “I picked Pocahontas’ brain for ideas.” 

“You’ve been talking to Pocahontas?” Kocoum asked. 

“Yeah. I mean, I asked her for tips, but I didn’t mention you specifically. She knows you only as Mystery Boyfriend.”

“…Mystery Boyfriend?” 

“I told her you were closeted. I’m not going to out you.” 

Kocoum looked…well, Thomas couldn’t quite place that look. After a few moments he continued. “I figured she would give me something I could use to seduce you.” 

The look changed from conflicted and conflicting to amused perplexity. “You’re trying to seduce me by tickling the back of my knee?” 

Put that way it sounded like the least sexy thing in the world. “Yeah.” 

Kocoum gave one of those smiles that he was never successful at hiding. The smiles that usually made Thomas feel like he was worth something because so few people had seen one. Now it just made him feel pathetic. Kocoum pulled the redhead up back into his lap and kissed him. 

“You don’t have to patronize me. I suck at seduction, I get it.” 

“No.” Kocoum kissed him again. “I suck at being seduced. And I’m not used to there being another man in the equation.” He lifted Thomas’ red and puffy palm to his lips and kissed it. 

Thomas pulled it away. “I don’t want…I’m not…” He faltered. Too many feelings, too many words to describe them, too many ways to get it all wrong. 

Kocoum didn’t move. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.” 

“I don’t want to be just an outlet for your over-protective side.” 

“I’m not over-protective.”

Hah. That was cute. “You look at me weird whenever I drink coffee, you cringe whenever I talk about riding my bike around town, and you constantly talk to me about sharing too much information on social media.” 

“You’re already hyper, this isn’t a bike-friendly city, and over-use of social media has been proven to cause depression. I’m not over-protective.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

“I’m not.”

“What does your therapist say?” 

“That I should communicate my needs and wants, and listen to yours. Without accusations. So stop telling me I’m over-protective, and tell me what you want.” 

“Intimacy,” Thomas blurted out. 

“Physical, or emotional?”

“Yes.” 

Kocoum inhaled and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. The following silence gave Thomas the horrible feeling of rejection. Instinctively he curled closer to his boyfriend for comfort. Kocoum responded by wrapping him in a hug and kissing the top of his head. 

So much for not being the protected member of their duo. 

“I want intimacy too,” Kocoum said. “And I looked online…”

“Did you check out tumblr?”

“I did, and I pray to God that my eyes never fall on that website again. There were other websites though. But…”

“But you’re not attracted to men.” 

“Not normally, no.” In one fluid motion Kocoum picked him up and started for the stairs. “However, I am attracted to you. I’m just used to things being one way, and now I have to get used to a new paradigm.” They reached the top of the stairs. “It’ll take a while. Not forever, just a while.” 

They were outside Kocoum’s bedroom now. Still holding Thomas, he fiddled with the doorknob, then toed the door open. 

“In the meantime, I’ll let you get as close as I can. We can kiss and touch, and talk all night.” He eased him onto the bed, then climbed on top, kissing his neck. 

Day-old stubble. God bless day old stubble. 

Eventually they collapsed in a pile of heat and mussed clothing. Feeling exhausted and exhilarated, Thomas curled closer again, only this time he felt stronger. He had made Kocoum gasp. With his tongue. 

Thunder boomed. Hurricane season had started. They were far enough up the coast that few hurricanes came to visit, but they still had to suffer rain and lightening. 

Another boom. Kocoum flinched. 

Reaching over, Thomas took the other man’s hand in his. “Your turn. Tell me what you want.” 

The first crack of lightening was bright enough to light up the room for half a second. It was Kocoum’s turn to curl closer. He shivered. 

“I want you to talk to me. And I want you to be here when I wake up in the morning.”


End file.
